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An't  she  a  peart  young  un  ? ;  said  Tom,  holding  her  from  him  to  take  a  full 
length  view."  —  Page  29. 


UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN 

OR,  LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY 


BY 


HARRIET  BEECHER   STOWE 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  WORK 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1851,  1878,  and  1879, 
BY  HARRIET   BEECHER  STOWE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


GIFT 


The.  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Iloughton  &  Co. 


MAIM 
PREFACE. 


THE  scenes  of  this  story,  as  its  title  indicates,  lie  among  a 
race  hitherto  ignored  by  the  associations  of  polite  and  refined 
society ;  an  exotic  race,  whose  ancestors,  born  beneath  a  tropic 
sun,  brought  with  them,  and  perpetuated  to  their  descendants, 
a  character  so  essentially  unlike  the  hard  and  dominant  Anglo- 
Saxon  race,  as  for  many  years  to  have  won  from  it  only  misun 
derstanding  and  contempt. 

But,  another  and  better  day  is  dawning ;  every  influence  of 
literature,  of  poetry,  and  of  art,  in  our  times,  is  becoming  more 
and  more  in  unison  with  the  great  master  chord  of  Christian 
ity,  "  good-will  to  man." 

The  poet,  the  painter,  and  the  artist  now  seek  out  and  embel 
lish  the  common  and  gentler  humanities  of  life,  and,  under  the 
allurements  of  fiction,  breathe  a  humanizing  and  subduing  in 
fluence,  favorable  to  the  development  of  the  great  principles  of 
Christian  brotherhood. 

The  hand  of  benevolence  is  everywhere  stretched  out,  search 
ing  into  abuses,  righting  wrongs,  alleviating  distresses,  and 
bringing  to  the  knowledge  and  sympathies  of  the  world  the 
lowly,  the  oppressed,  and  the  forgotten. 

In  this  general  movement,  unhappy  Africa  at  last  is  remem 
bered  ;  Africa,  who  began  the  race  of  civilization  and  human 
progress  in  the  dim,  gray  dawn  of  early  time,  but  who,  for  cen 
turies,  has  lain  bound  and  bleeding  at  the  foot  of  civilized  and 
Christianized  humanity,  imploring  compassion  in  vain. 

But  the  heart  of  the  dominant  race,  who  have  been  her  con. 


»V  PREFACE. 

querors,  her  hard  masters,  has  at  length  been  turned  towards 
her  in  mercy ;  and  it  has  been  seen  how  far  nobler  it  is  in  na 
tions  to  protect  the  feeble  than  to  oppress  them.  Thanks  be  to 
God,  the  world  has  at  last  outlived  the  slave-trade ! 

The  object  of  these  sketches  is  to  awaken  sympathy  and  feel 
ing  for  the  African  race,  as  they  exist  among  us  ;  to  show  their 
wrongs  and  sorrows,  under  a  system  so  necessarily  cruel  and 
unjust  as  to  defeat  and  do  away  the  good  effects  of  all  that  can 
be  attempted  for  them,  by  their  best  friends,  under  it. 

In  doing  this,  the  author  can  sincerely  disclaim  any  invidiou3 
feeling  towards  those  individuals  who,  often  without  any  fault 
of  their  own,  are  involved  in  the  trials  and  embarrassments  of 
the  legal  relations  of  slavery.  ' 

Experience  has  shown  her  that  some  of  the  noblest  of  minds 
and  hearts  are  often  thus  involved ;  and  no  one  knows  better 
than  they  do,  that  what  may  be  gathered  of  the  evils  of  slavery 
from  sketches  like  these,  is  not  the  half  that  could  be  told,  of 
the  unspeakable  whole. 

In  the  Northern  States,  these  representations  may,  perhaps, 
be  thought  caricatures  ;  in  the  Southern  States  are  witnesses 
who  know  their  fidelity.  What  personal  knowledge  the  author 
has  had,  of  the  truth  of  incidents  such  as  here  are  related,  will 
appear  in  its  time. 

It  is  a  comfort  to  hope,  as  so  many  of  the  world's  sorrows 
and  wrongs  have,  from  age  to  age,  been  lived  down,  so  a  time 
shall  come  when  sketches  similar  to  these  shall  be  valuable  only 
as  memorials  of  what  has  long  ceased  to  be. 

When  an  enlightened  and  Christianized  community  shall 
have,  on  the  shores  of  Africa,  laws,  language,  and  literature, 
drawn  from  among  us,  may  then  the  scenes  of  the  house  of 
bondage  be  to  them  like  the  remembrance  of  Egpyt  to  the  Is 
raelite,  —  a  motive  of  thankfulness  to  Him  who  hath  redeemed 
them ! 

For,  while  politicians  contend,  and  men  are  sv        ed  this  wa. 


PREFACE.  V 

and  that  by  conflicting  tides  of  interest  and  passion,  the  great 
cause  of  human  liberty  is  in  the  hands  of  One,  of  whom  it  is 
said :  — 

"He  shall  not  fail  nor  be  discouraged 
Till  he  have  set  judgment  in  the  earth." 

"  He  shall  deliver  the  needy  when  he  crieth, 
The  poor,  and  him  that  hath  no  helper." 

'•  He  shall  redeem  their  soul  from  deceit  and  violence 
Aad  precious  shall  their  blood  be  in  his  sight." 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  NEW  EDITION ix 

I.    IN  WHICH  THE  READER  is  INTRODUCED  TO  A  MAN  OF 

HUMANITY 1 

II.     THE  MOTHER 12 

III.  THE  HUSBAND  AND  FATHER 16 

IV.  AN  EVENING  IN  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN 22 

V.    SHOWING    THE    FEELINGS    OF    LIVING    PROPERTY    ON 

CHANGING  OWNERS 35 

VI.    DISCOVERY 45 

VII.    THE  MOTHER'S  STRUGGLE 55 

VIII.    ELIZA'S  ESCAPE 70 

IX.      IN  WHICH   IT    APPEARS    THAT  A   SENATOR    IS    BUT  A  MAN  87 

X.     THE  PROPERTY  is  CARRIED  OFF 105 

XI.     IN  WHICH  PROPERTY  GETS   INTO  AN  IMPROPER  STATE 

OF  MIND 116 

XII.     SELECT  INCIDENT  OF  LAWFUL  TRADE      .....  131 

XIII.  THE  QUAKER  SETTLEMENT 149 

XIV.  EVANGELINE 159 

XV.    OF  TOM'S  NEW  MASTER,  AND  VARIOUS  OTHER  MATTERS  170 

XVI.     TOM'S  MISTRESS  AND  HER  OPINIONS 187 

XVII.     THE  FREEMAN'S  DEFENCE 207 

XVIII.     Miss  OPHELIA'S  EXPERIENCES  AND  OPINIONS.     ...  225 
XIX.     Miss    OPHELIA'S    EXPERIENCES    AND    OPINIONS,    CON 
TINUED 242 

XX.     TOPSY 264 

XXI.     KENTUCK 281 

XXII.    "THE  GRASS  WITHERETH — THE  FLOWER  FADETH  "      .  287 

XXIII.  HENRIQUE 295 

XXIV.  FORESHADOWINGS 304 


Vlll 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


XXV.  THE  LITTLE  EVANGELIST 311 

XXVI.  DEATH 317 

XXVII.  "THIS  is  THE  LAST  OF  EARTH" 332 

XXVIII.  REUNION 341 

XXIX.  THE  UNPROTECTED 357 

XXX.  THE  SLAVE  WAREHOUSE 365 

XXXI.  THE  MIDDLE  PASSAGE 376 

XXXII.  DARK  PLACES 383 

XXXIII.  GASSY 392 

XXXIV.  THE  QUADROON'S  STORY 400 

XXXV.  THE  TOKENS 412 

XXX YI.  EMMELINE  AND  CASSY 419 

XXXVII.  LIBERTY , 427 

XXXVIII.  THE  VICTORY 434 

XXXIX.  THE  STRATAGEM 445 

XL.  THE  MARTYR 456 

XLI.  THE  YOUNG  MASTER 464 

XLII.  AN  AUTHENTIC  GHOST  STORY 471 

XLIII.  RESULTS 478 

XLIV.  THE  LIBERATOR 48G 

XLV,  CONCLUDING  REMARKS    .     ,  .  490 


INTRODUCTION 

TO  THE  NEW  EDITION. 


THE  introduction  of  a  new  American  Edition  of  "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  "  gives  an  occasion  for  a  brief  account  of  that 
book,  —  how  it  came  to  be,  how  it  was  received  in  the  world, 
and  what  has  been  its  history  throughout  all  the  nations  and 
tribes  of  the  earth,  civilized  and  uncivilized,  into  whose  lan 
guages  it  has  been  translated. 

Its  author  had  for  many  years  lived  in  Ohio  on  the  confines 
of  a  slave  state,  and  had  thus  been  made  familiar  with  facts 
and  occurrences  in  relation  to  the  institution  of  American 
slavery.  Some  of  the  most  harrowing  incidents  related  in  the 
story  had  from  time  to  time  come  to  her  knowledge  in  conversa 
tion  with  former  slaves  now  free  in  Ohio.  The  cruel  sale  and 
separation  of  a  married  woman  from  her  husband,  narrated  in 
Chapter  XII.,  "  Select  Incident  of  Lawful  Trade,"  had  passed 
under  her  own  eye  while  passenger  on  a  steamboat  on  the  Ohio 
River.  Her  husband  and  brother  had  once  been  obliged  to  flee 
with  a  fugitive  slave  woman  by  night,  as  described  in  Chapter 
IX.,  and  she  herself  had  been  called  to  write  the  letters  for  a 
former  slave  woman,  servant  in  her  own  family,  to  a  slave  hus 
band  in  Kentucky,  who,  trusted  with  unlimited  liberty,  free  to 
come  and  go  on  business  between  Kentucky  and  Ohio,  still 
refused  to  break  his  pledge  of  honor  to  his  master,  though  that 
master  from  year  to  year  deferred  the  keeping  of  his  promise 
of  freedom  to  the  slave.  It  was  the  simple  honor  and  loyalty 
of  this  Christian  black  man,  who  remained  in  slavery  rather  than 
violate  a  trust,  that  first  impressed  her  with  the  possibility  of 
such  a  character  as,  years  after,  was  delineated  in  Uncle  Tom. 
From  time  to  time  incidents  were  brought  to  her  knowledge 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

which  deepened  her  horror  of  slavery.  In  her  own  family  she 
had  a  private  school  for  her  children,  and  as  there  was  no  pro 
vision  for  the  education  of  colored  children  in  her  vicinity,  she 
allowed  them  the  privilege  of  attending.  One  day  she  was  sud 
denly  surprised  by  a  visit  from  the  mother  of  one  of  the  brightest 
and  most  amusing  of  these  children.  It  appeared  that  the  child 
had  never  been  emancipated,  and  was  one  of  the  assets  of  an 
estate  in  Kentucky,  and  had  been  seized  and  carried  off  by  one 
of  the  executors,  and  was  to  be  sold  by  the  sheriff  at  auction  to 
settle  the  estate.  The  sum  for  the  little  one's  ransom  was  made 
up  by  subscription  in  the  neighborhood,  but  the  incident  left  a 
deep  mark  in  Mrs.  Stowe's  mind  as  to  the  practical  workings  of 
the  institution  of  slavery. 

But  it  was  not  for  many  years  that  she  felt  any  call  to  make 
use  of  the  materials  thus  accumulating.  In  fact,  it  was  a  sort 
of  general  impression  upon  her  mind,  as  upon  that  of  many 
humane  people  in  those  days,  that  the  subject  was  so  dark  and 
painful  a  one,  so  involved  in  difficulty  and  obscurity,  so  utterly 
beyond  human  hope  or  help,  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  read,  or 
think,  or  distress  one's  self  about  it.  There  was  a  class  of  pro 
fessed  abolitionists  in  Cincinnati  and  the  neighboring  regions, 
but  they  were  unfashionable  persons  and  few  in  number.  Like 
all  asserters  of  pure  abstract  right  as  applied  to  human  affairs, 
they  were  regarded  as  a  species  of  moral  monomaniacs,  who,  in 
the  consideration  of  one  class  of  interests  and  wrongs,  had  lost 
sight  of  all  proportion  and  all  good  judgment.  Both  in  church 
and  in  state  they  were  looked  upon  as  "  those  that  troubled 
Israel." 

It  was  a  general  saying  among  conservative  and  sagacious 
people  that  this  subject  was  a  dangerous  one  to  investigate,  and 
that  nobody  could  begin  to  read  and  think  upon  it  without  be 
coming  practically  insane ;  moreover,  that  it  was  a  subject  of 
such  delicacy  that  no  discussion  of  it  could  be  held  in  the  free 
states  without  impinging  upon  the  sensibilities  of  the  slave 
states,  to  whom  alone  the  management  of  the  matter  belonged. 

So  when  Dr.  Bailey  —  a  wise,  temperate,  and  just  man,  a 
model  of  courtesy  in   speech  and  writing  —  came  to  Cincinnati 
and  set  up  8.n  anti-slavery  paper,  proposing  a  fair  discussion  o 
the  subject,  there  was  an  immediate  excitement.     On  two  occa 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

sions  a  mob  led  by  slave-holders  from  Kentucky  attacked  his 
office,  destroyed  his  printing-press,  and  threw  his  types  into  the 
Ohio  River.  The  most  of  the  Cincinnati  respectability,  in 
church  and  state,  contented  themselves  on  this  occasion  with 
reprobating  the  imprudence  of  Dr.  Bailey  in  thus  "  arousing  the 
passions  of  our  fellow-citizens  of  Kentucky."  In  these  mobs 
and  riots  the  free  colored  people  were  threatened,  maltreated, 
abused,  and  often  had  to  flee  for  their  lives.  Even  the  servants 
of  good  families  were  often  chased  to  the  very  houses  of  their 
employers,  who  rescued  them  with  difficulty ;  and  the  story  was 
current  in  those  days  of  a  brave  little  woman,  who  defended  her 
black  waiter,  standing,  pistol  in  hand,  on  her  own  doorstep,  and 
telling  the  mob  face  to  face  that  they  should  not  enter  except 
over  her  dead  body. 

Professor  Stowe's  house  was  more  than  once  a  refuge  for 
frightened  fugitives  on  whom  the  very  terrors  of  death  had 
fallen,  and  the  inmates  slept  with  arms  in  the  house  and  a  large 
bell  ready  to  call  the  young  men  of  the  adjoining  Institution,  in 
case  the  mob  should  come  up  to  search  the  house.  Nor  was  this 
a  vain  or  improbable  suggestion,  for  the  mob  in  their  fury  had 
more  than  once  threatened  to  go  up  and  set  fire  to  Lane  Sem 
inary,  where  a  large  body  of  the  students  were  known  to  be 
abolitionists.  Only  the  fact  that  the  Institution  was  two  miles 
from  the  city,  with  a  rough  and  muddy  road  up  a  long  high 
hill,  proved  its  salvation.  Cincinnati  mud,  far  known  for  its 
depth  and  tenacity,  had  sometimes  its  advantages. 

The  general  policy  of  the  leaders  of  society,  in  cases  of  such 
disturbances,  was  after  the  good  old  pattern  in  Judaea,  where  a 
higher  One  had  appeared,  who  disturbed  the  traders  in  swine  ; 
"  they  besought  him  that  he  would  depart  out  of  their  coasts." 
Dr.  Bailey  at  last  was  induced  to  remove  his  paper  to  Washing 
ton,  and  to  conduct  his  investigation  under  the  protection  of  the 
national  Capitol,  —  and  there  for  years  he  demonstrated  the  fact 
that  the  truth  may  be  spoken  plainly  yet  courteously,  and  with 
all  honorable  and  Christian  fairness,  on  the  most  exciting  of  sub 
jects.  In  justice  to  the  south  it  must  be  said,  that  his  honesty, 
courage,  and  dignity  of  character  won  for  him  friends  even 
among  the  most  determined  slave-holders.  Manly  men  have  a 
sore  of  friendship  for  an  open,  honest  opponent,  like  that  of 
Kichard  Cqeur  cle  Lion  for  Saladin. 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

Far  otherwise  was  the  fate  of  Lovejoy,  who  essayed  an  anti 
slavery  paper  at  Alton,  Illinois.  A  mob  from  Missouri  besieged 
the  office,  set  the  house  on  fire,  and  shot  him  at  the  door.  It 
was  for  some  days  reported  that  Dr.  Beecher's  son,  Rev.  Edward 
Beecher,  known  to  have  been  associated  with  Lovejoy  at  this 
period,  had  been  killed  at  the  same  time.  Such  remembrances 
show  how  well  grounded  were  the  fears  which  attended  every 
effort  to  agitate  this  subject.  People  who  took  the  side  of  jus 
tice  and  humanity  in  those  days  had  to  count  the  cost  and  pay 
the  price  of  their  devotion.  In  those  times,  when  John  G.  Fee, 
a  young  Kentucky  student  in  Lane  Seminary,  liberated  his  slaves, 
and  undertook  to  preac.li  the  gospel  of  emancipation  in  Kentucky, 
he  was  chased  from  the  state,  and  disinherited  by  his  own  father. 
Berea  College,  for  the  education  of  colored  and  white,  stands  to 
day  a  triumphant  monument  of  his  persistence  in  well-doing. 
Mr.  Van  Zandt,  a  Kentucky  farmer,  set  free  his  slaves  and  came 
over  and  bought  a  farm  in  Ohio.  Subsequently,  from  an  impulse 
of  humanity,  he  received  and  protected  fugitive  slaves  in  the 
manner  narrated  in  Chapter  IX.  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  For 
this  he  was  seized,  imprisoned,  his  property  attached,  and  he 
was  threatened  with  utter  ruin.  Salmon  ±*.  Chase,  then  a  rising 
young  lawyer  in  Cincinnati,  had  the  bravery  to  appear  as  his 
lawyer.  As  he  was  leaving  the  court-room,  after  making  his 
plea,  one  of  the  judges  remarked,  "  There  goes  a  young  man 
who  has  mined  himself  to-day,"  and  the  sentiment  was  echoed 
by  the  general  voice  of  society.  The  case  went  against  Van 
Zandt,  and  Mr.  Chase  carried  it  up  to  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States,  which,  utterly  ignoring  argument  and  justice, 
decided  it  against  him.  But  a  few  years  more,  and  Salmon  P. 
Chase  was  himself  Chief  Justice  of  the  United  States.  It  was 
one  of  those  rare  dramatic  instances  in  which  courage  and  jus 
tice  sometimes  bring  a  reward  even  in  this  life. 

After  many  years'  residence  in  Ohio,  Mrs.  Stowe  returned  to 
make  her  abode  in  New  England,  just  in  the  height  of  the  ex 
citement  produced  by  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law.  Settled  in 
Brunswick,  Maine,  she  was  in  constant  communication  with 
friends  in  Boston,  who  wrote  to  her  from  day  to  day  of  the  terror 
and  despair  which  that  law  had  occasioned  to  industrious,  worthy 
colored  people  who  had  from  time  to  time  escaped  to  Boston, 


INTRODUCTION.  Xlll 

and  were  living  in  peace  and  security.  She  heard  of  families 
broken  up  and  fleeing  in  the  dead  of  winter  to  the  frozen  shores 
of  Canada.  But  what  seemed  to  her  more  inexplicable,  more 
dreadful,  was  the  apparent  apathy  of  the  Christian  world  of  the 
free  north  to  these  proceedings.  The  pulpits  that  denounced 
them  were  exceptions  ;  the  voices  raised  to  remonstrate  few  and 
far  between. 

In  New  England,  as  at  the  west,  professed  abolitionists  were 
a  small,  despised,  unfashionable  band,  whose  constant  remon 
strances  from  year  to  year  had  been  disregarded  as  the  voices  of 
impracticable  fanatics.  It  seemed  now  as  if  the  system  once 
confined  to  the  Southern  States  was  rousing  itself  to  new  efforts 
to  extend  itself  all  over  the  north,  and  to  overgrow  the  institu 
tions  of  free  society. 

With  astonishment  and  distress  Mrs.  Stowe  heard  on  all  sides, 
from  humane  and  Christian  people,  that  the  slavery  of  the  blacks 
was  a  guaranteed  constitutional  right,  and  that  all  opposition  to 
it  endangered  the  national  Union.  With  this  conviction  she  saw 
that  even  earnest  and  tender-hearted  Christian  people  seemed  to 
feel  it  a  duty  to  close  their  eyes,  ears,  and  hearts  to  the  harrow 
ing  details  of  slavery,  to  put  down  all  discussion  of  the  subject, 
and  even  to  assist  slave-owners  to  recover  fugitives  in  Northern 
States.  She  said  to  herself,  these  people  cannot  know  what 
slavery  is ;  they  do  not  see  what  they  are  defending ;  and  hence 
arose  a  purpose  to  write  some  sketches  which  should  show  to  the 
world  slavery  as  she  had  herself  seen  it.  Pondering-  this  subject, 
she  was  one  day  turning  over  a  little  bound  volume  of  an  anti- 
slavery  magazine,  edited  by  Mrs.  Dr.  Bailey,  of  Washington,  and 
there  she  read  the  account  of  the  escape  of  a  woman  with  her 
child  on  the  ice  of  the  Ohio  River  from  Kentucky.  The  inci 
dent  was  given  by  an  eye-witness,  one  who  had  helped  the  woman 
to  the  Ohio  shore.  This  formed  the  first  salient  point  of  the 
story.  She  began  to  meditate.  The  faithful  slave  husband  in 
Kentucky  occurred  to  her  as  a  pattern  of  Uncle  Tom,  and  the 
scenes  of  the  story  began  gradually  to  form  themselves  in  her 
mind. 

The  first  part  of  the  book  ever  committed  to  writing  was  the 
death  of  Uncle  Tom.  This  scene  presented  itself  almost  as  a 
tangible  vision  to  her  mind  while  sitting  at  the  communion-table 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

m  the  little  church  in  Brunswick.  She  was  perfectly  overcome 
by  it,  and  could  scarcely  restrain  the  convulsion  of  tears  and 
sobbings  that  shook  her  frame.  She  hastened  home  and  wrote 
it,  and  her  husband  being  away  she  read  it  to  her  two  sons  of 
ten  and  twelve  years  of  age.  The  little  fellows  broke  out  into 
convulsions  of  weeping,  one  of  them  saying,  through  his  sobs, 
"  Oh  !  mamma,  slavery  is  the  most  cursed  thing  in  the  world  !  " 
From  that  time  the  story  can  less  be  said  to  have  been  composed 
by  her  than  imposed  upon  her.  Scenes,  incidents,  conversations 
rushed  upon  her  with  a  vividness  and  importunity  that  would  not 
be  denied.  The  book  insisted  upon  getting  itself  into  being,  and 
would  take  no  denial.  After  the  two  or  three  first  chapters  were 
written,  she  wrote  to  Dr.  Bailey  of  the  "  National  Era  "  that  she 
was  planning  a  story  that  might  probably  run  through  several 
numbers  of  the  "  Era."  In  reply  she  received  an  instant  appli 
cation  for  it,  and  began  immediately  to  send  off  weekly  instal 
ments.  She  was  then  in  the  midst  of  heavy  domestic  cares,  with 
a  young  infant,  with  a  party  of  pupils  in  her  family  to  whom  she 
was  imparting  daily  lessons  with  her  own  children,  and  with  un 
trained  servants  requiring  constant  supervision,  but  the  story  was 
so  much  more  intense  a  reality  to  her  than  any  other  earthly 
thing  that  the  weekly  instalment  never  failed.  It  was  there  in 
her  mind  day  and  night  waiting  to  be  written,  and  requiring  but 
a  few  moments  to  bring  it  into  visible  characters. 

The  weekly  number  was  always  read  to  the  family  circle  be 
fore  it  was  sent  away,  and  all  the  household  kept  up  an  intense 
interest  in  the  progress  of  the  story. 

As  the  narrative  appeared  in.  the  "  Era,"  sympathetic  words 
began  to  come  to  her  from  old  workers  who  had  long  been  strug 
gling  in  the  anti-slavery  cause.  She  visited  Boston,  went  to  the 
Anti-Slavery  Rooms,  and  reinforced  her  repertoire  of  facts  by 
such  documents  as  Theodore  D.  Weld's  "  Slavery  As  It  Is,"  the 
Lives  of  Josiah  Henson  and  Lewis  Clarke,  particulars  from 
both  whose  lives  were  inwoven  with  the  story  in  the  characters 
of  Uncle  Tom  and  George  Harris. 

In  shaping  her  material  the  author  had  but  one  purpose,  to 
show  the  institution  of  slavery  truly,  just  as  it  existed.  She  had 
visited  in  Kentucky,  had  formed  the  acquaintance  of  people  who 
were  just,  upright,  and  generous,  and  yet  slave-holders.  She  1 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

heard  their  views  and  appreciated  their  situation ;  she  felt  that 
justice  required  that  their  difficulties  should  be  recognized  and 
their  virtues  acknowledged.  It  was  her  object  to  show  that  the 
evils  of  slavery  were  the  inherent  evils  of  a  bad  system,  and  not 
always  the  fault  of  those  who  had  become  involved  in  it  and  were 
its  actual  administrators. 

Then  she  was  convinced  that  the  presentation  of  slavery  alone, 
in  its  most  dreadful  forms,  would  be  a  picture  of  such  unrelieved 
horror  and  darkness  as  nobody  could  be  induced  to  look  at.  Or 
set  purpose,  she  sought  to  light  up  the  darkness  by  humorous 
and  grotesque  episodes,  and  the  presentation  of  the  milder  and 
more  amusing  phases  of  slavery,  for  which  her  recollection  of  the 
never-failing  wit  and  drollery  of  her  former  colored  friends  in 
Ohio  gave  her  abundant  material.  As  the  story  progressed,  a 
young  publisher,  J.  P.  Jewett,  of  Boston,  set  his  eye  upon  it,  and 
made  overtures  for  the  publication  of  it  in  book  form,  to  which 
she  consented.  After  a  while  she  had  a  letter  from  him  express 
ing  his  fears  that  she  was  making  the  story  too  long  for  a  one- 
volume  publication.  He  reminded  her  that  it  was  an  unpopular 
subject,  and  that  people  would  not  willingly  hear  much  about  it ; 
that  one  short  volume  might  possibly  sell,  but  if  it  grew  to  two  it 
might  prove  a  fatal  obstacle  to  its  success.  Mrs.  Stowe  replied 
that  she  did  not  make  the  story,  that  the  story  made  itself,  and 
that  she  could  not  stop  it  till  it  was  done.  The  feeling  that  pur 
sued  her  increased  in  intensity  to  the  last,  till  with  the  death  of 
Uncle  Tom  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  vital  force  had  left  her. 
A  feeling  of  profound  discouragement  came  over  her.  Would 
anybody  read  it  ?  Would  anybody  listen  ?  Would  this  appeal, 
into  which  she  had  put  heart,  soul,  mind,  and  strength,  which 
she  had  written  with  her  heart's  blood,  —  would  it,  too,  go  for 
nothing,  as  so  many  prayers  and  groans  and  entreaties  of  these 
poor  suffering  souls  had  already  gone  ?  There  had  just  been  a 
party  of  slaves  who  had  been  seized  and  thrown  into  prison  in 
Washington  for  a  vain  effort  to  escape.  They  were,  many  of 
them,  partially  educated,  cultivated  young  men  avid  women,  to 
whom  slavery  was  intolerable.  When  they  were  retaken  and 
marched  through  the  streets  of  Washington,  followed  by  a  jeer 
ing  crowd,  one  of  them,  named  Emily  Edmundson,  answered  one 
man  who  cried  shame  upon  her,  that  she  was  not  ashamed,  — 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

that  she  was  proud  that  she  and  all  the  rest  of  them  had  made 
an  effort  for  liberty  !  It  was  the  sentiment  of  a  heroine,  but  she 
and  her  sisters  were  condemned  no  less  to  the  auction-block. 

It  was  when  the  last  proof-sheet  had  been  sent  to  the  office 
that  Mrs.  Stowe,  alone  and  thoughtful,  sat  reading  Horace 
Mann's  eloquent  ploa  for  those  young  men  and  women,  then 
about  to  be  consigned  to  the  slave  warehouse  of  Bruin  &  Hill 
in  Alexandria,  —  a  plea  eloquent,  impassioned,  but  vain,  as  all 
other  pleas  on  that  side  had  ever  proved  in  all  courts  hitherto. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  no  hope,  that  nobody  would 
hear,  nobody  would  read,  nobody  would  pity ;  that  this  frightful 
system,  which  had  already  pursued  its  victims  into  the  free 
states,  might  at  last  even  threaten  them  in  Canada. 

So,  determined  to  leave  nothing  undone  which  remotely  could 
help  the  cause  she  pleaded,  she  wrote  one  letter  to  Prince  Albert 
to  accompany  a  copy  of  her  work ;  another  to  T.  B.  Macaulay, 
of  whose  father  she  had  heard  in  her  youth  as  an  anti-slavery 
laborer ;  one  to  Charles  Dickens,  whose  sympathy  for  the  slave 
had  been  expressed  more  than  once  ;  one  to  Charles  Kingsley, 
and  one  to  Lord  Carlisle.  These  letters  were  dispatched  to 
their  destination  with  early  copies  of  the  book,  and  all  in  due 
time  acknowledged  to  the  author. 

"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  was  published  March  20,  1852.  The 
despondency  of  the  author  as  to  the  question  whether  anybody 
would  read  or  attend  to  her  appeal  was  soon  dispelled.  Ten 
thousand  copies  were  sold  in  a  few  days,  and  over  three  hun 
dred  thousand  within  a  year,  and  eight  power-presses,  running 
day  and  night,  were  barely  able  to  keep  pace  with  the  demand 
for  it.  It  was  read  everywhere,  apparently,  and  by  everybody, 
and  she  soon  began  to  hear  echoes  of  sympathy  all  over  the 
land.  The  indignation,  the  pity,  the  distress,  that  had  long 
weighed  upon  her  soul  seemed  to  pass  off  from  her,  and  into 
the  readers  of  the  book. 

The  following  note  from  a  lady,  an  intimate  friend,  was  a 
specimen  of  many  which  the  post  daily  brought  her :  — 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  STOWE, — I  sat  up  last  night  until  long  after  one 
o'clock,  reading  and  finishing  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  I  could  not 
leave  it  any  more  than  I  could  have  left  a  dying  child  ;  nor  could  I 
restrain  «,n  almost  hysterical  sobbing  for  an  hour  after  I  laid  my 


INTRODUCTION.  XVII 

head  upon  my  pillow.  I  thought  I  was  a  thoroughgoing  abolitionist 
before,  but  your  book  has  awakened  so  strong  a  feeling  of  indignation 
and  of  compassion,  that  I  seem  never  to  have  had  any  feeling  on  this 
subject  till  now.  But  what  can  we  do  ?  Alas  !  alas  !  what  can  we 
do  ?  This  storm  of  feeling  has  been  raging,  burning  like  a  very  fire 
in  my  bones  all  the  livelong  night,  and  through  all  my  duties  this 
morning  it  haunts  me,  —  I  cannot  away  with  it.  Gladly  would  I 
have  gone  out  in  the  midnight  storm  last  night,  and,  like  the  blessed 
martyr  of  old,  been  stoned  to  death,  if  that  could  have  rescued  these 
oppressed  and  afflicted  ones.  But  that  would  avail  nothing.  And 
now  what  am  I  doing  ?  Just  the  most  foolish  thing  in  the  world. 
Writing  to  you,  who  need  no  incitement ;  to  you,  who  have  spun 
from  your  very  vitals  this  tissue  of  agony  and  truths  ;  for  I  know,  I 
feel,  that  there  are  burning  drops  of  your  heart's  best  blood  here 
concentrated.  To  you,  who  need  no  encouragement  or  sympathy  of 
mine,  and  whom  I  would  not  insult  by  praise,  —  Oh  no,  you  stand  on 
too  high  an  eminence  for  praise  ;  but  methinks  I  see  the  prayers  of 
the  poor,  the  blessings  of  those  who  are  ready  to  perish,  gathering  in 
clouds  about  you,  and  forming  a  halo  round  your  beloved  head. 
And  surely  the  tears  of  gentle,  sympathizing  childhood,  that  are 
dropping  about  many  a  Christian  hearthstone  over  the  wrongs  and 
cruelties  depicted  by  you  so  touchingly,  will  water  the  sod  and  spring 
up  in  bright  flowers  at  your  feet.  And  better  still,  I  know,  —  I  see, 
in  the  flushing  cheek,  the  clenched  hand,  and  indignant  eye  of  the 
young  man,  as  he  dashes  down  the  book  and  paces  the  room  to  hide 
the  tears  that  he  is  too  proud  to  show,  too  powerless  to  restrain,  that 
you  are  sowing  seed  which  shall  yet  spring  up  to  the  glory  of  God, 
to  the  good  of  the  poor  slave,  to  the  enfranchisement  of  our  beloved 
though  guilty  country. 

% 

Mrs.  Stowe  at  this  period  visited  New  York.  It  was  just  at 
the  time  of  Jenny  Lind's  first  visit  to  this  country,  when  the 
young  Swedish  vocalist  was  the  idol  of  the  hour,  and  tickets  to 
her  concerts  were  selling  at  fabulous  prices.  Mrs.  Stowe's 
friends,  applying  for  tickets,  found  all  sold  ;  hut,  on  hearing  of 
the  application,  the  cantatrice  immediately  sent  Mrs.  Stowe  two 
tickets  to  two  of  the  best  seats  in  the  house.  In  reply  to  Mrs. 
Stowe's  note  of  thanks  came  this  answer :  — 

May  23,  1852. 

MY  DEAR  MADAM,  —  Allow  me  to  express  my  most  sincere  thanks 
for  your  very  kind  letter,  which  I  was  very  happy  to  receive. 

You  must  feel  and  know  what  deep  impression    "  Uncle  Tom's 
b 


XV111  INTRODUCTION. 

Cabin  "  has  made  upon  every  heart  that  can  feel  for  the  dignity  of 
human  existence  ;  so  I,  with  my  miserable  English,  would  not  even 
try  to  say  a  word  about  the  great  excellency  of  that  most  beautiful 
book,  but  /  must  thank  you  for  the  great  joy  I  have  felt  over  that 
book. 

Forgive  me,  my  dear  madam  ;  it  is  a  great  liberty  I  take  in  thus 
addressing  you,  I  know,  but  I  have  so  wished  to  find  an  opportunity 
to  pour  out  my  thankfulness  in  a  few  words  to  you  that  I  cannot 
help  this  intruding.  I  have  the  feeling  about  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  " 
that  great  changes  will  take  place  by  and  by  from  the  impression 
people  receive  out  of  it,  and  that  the  writer  of  that  book  can  "fall 
asleep "  to-day  or  to-morrow  with  the  bright  sweet  conscience  of 
having  been  a  strong,  powerful  means,  in  the  Creator's  hand,  of 
operating  essential  good  in  one  of  the  most  important  questions  for 
the  welfare  of  our  black  brethren.  God  bless  and  protect  you  and 
yours,  dear  madam,  and  certainly  God's  hand  will  remain  with  a 
blessing  over  your  head. 

Once  more,  forgive  my  bad  English  and  the  liberty  I  have  taken 
and  believe  me  to  be,  dear  madam, 

Yours  most  truly, 

JENNY  GOLDSCHMIDT,  ne'e  LIND. 

A  more  cheering  result  was  in  the  testimony  of  many  colored 
persons  and  fugitive  slaves,  who  said  to  her,  "  Since  that  book 
has  come  out,  everybody  is  good  to  us  ;  we  find  friends  every 
where.  It 's  wonderful  how  kind  everybody  is." 

In  one  respect,  Mrs.  Stowe's  expectations  were  strikingly 
different  from  fact.  She  had  painted  slave-holders  as  amiable, 
generous,  and  j^st.  She  had  shown  examples  among  them  of 
the  noblest  and  most  beautiful  traits  of  character ;  had  admitted 
fully  their  temptations,  their  perplexities,  and  their  difficulties, 
so  that  a  friend  of  hers  who  had  many  relatives  in  the  south 
wrote  to  her  in  exultation  :  "  Your  book  is  going  to  be  the  great 
pacificator;  it  will  unite  both  north  and  south."  Her  expec 
tation  was  that  the  professed  abolitionists  would  denounce  it  as 
altogether  too  mild  in  its  dealings  with  slave-holders.  To  her 
astonishment,  it  was  the  extreme  abolitionists  who  received,  and 
the  entire  south  who  rose  up  against  it. 

Whittier  wrote  to  Garrison  in  May,  1852 :  — 

"  It  did  me  good  to  see  thy  handwriting,  friend  William,  remind, 
ing  me  of  the  old  days  when  we  fought  the  beasts  at  Ephesua 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

together  in  Philadelphia.  Ah  me  !  I  am  no  longer  able  to  take 
active  part  in  the  conflicts  and  skirmishes  which  are  preparing  the 
way  for  the  great  battle  of  Armageddon,  —  the  world- wide,  final 
struggle  between  freedom  and  slavery,  —  but,  sick  or  well,  in  the 
body  or  out,  I  shall  be  no  unconcerned  spectator.  I  bless  God  that, 
through  the  leadings  of  his  Providence,  I  have  a  right  to  rejoice  in 
the  certain  victory  of  the  right. 

"  What  a  glorious  work  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  has  wrought ! 
Thanks  for  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  !  Better  for  slavery  that  law 
had  never  been  enacted,  for  it  gave  occasion  for  '  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin '  ! " 

In  a  letter  from  Garrison  to  Mrs.  Stowe,  he  said  that  lie 
estimated  the  value  of  anti-slavery  writing  by  the  abuse  it 
brought.  "Since  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin'  has  been  published," 
he  adds,  "  all  the  defenders  of  slavery  have  let  me  alone,  and 
are  spending  their  strength  in  abusing  you."  In  fact,  the  post- 
office  began  about  this  time  to  bring  her  threatening  and  insult 
ing  letters  from  the  Legrees  and  Haleys  of  the  slave-markets, 
—  letters  so  curiously  compounded  of  blasphemy,  cruelty,  and 
obscenity,  that  their  like  could  only  be  expressed  by  John 
Bunyan's  account  of  the  speech  of  Apollyon,  —  "  He  spake  as  a 
dragon." 

Aiter  a  little,  however,  responses  began  to  come  from  across 
the  water.  The  author  had  sent  copies  to  Prince  Albert,  to 
Charles  Dickens,  to  T.  B.  Macaulay,  to  Kingsley,  and  to  Lord 
Carlisle.  The  receipt  of  the  copy  sent  to  Prince  Albert  was 
politely  acknowledged,  with  thanks,  by  his  private  secretary. 
Her  letter  is  here  given  :  — 

To  His  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  PRINCE  ALBERT  : 

The  author  of  this  work  feels  that  she  has  an  apology  for  present 
ing  it  to  Prince  Albert,  because  it  concerns  the  great  interests  of 
humanity,  and  from  those  noble  and  enlarged  views  of  human  prog 
ress  which  she  has  at  different  times  seen  in  his  public  speeches,  she 
has  inferred  that  he  has  an  eye  and  a  heart  for  all  that  concerns  the 
development  and  welfare  of  the  human  family. 

Ignorant  of  the  forms  of  diplomatic  address,  and  the  etiquette  of 
rank,  may  she  be  pardoned  for  speaking  with  the  republican  sim 
plicity  of  her  own  country,  HS  to  one  who  possesses  a  nobility  higher 
than  that  of  rank  or  station. 

This  simple  narrative  is  an  honest  attempt  to  enlist  the  sympathies 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

both  of  England  and  America  in  the  sufferings  of  an  oppressed  race, 
to  whom  in  less  enlightened  days  both  England  and  America  were 
unjust. 

The  wrong  on  England's  past  has  been  atoned  in  a  manner  worthy 
of  herself,  nor  in  all  her  strength  and  glory  is  there  anything  that 
adds  such  lustre  to  her  name  as  the  position  she  holds  in  relation  to 
human  freedom.  (May  America  yet  emulate  her  example  !) 

The  appeal  is  in  greater  part,  as  it  should  be,  to  the  writer's  own 
country,  but  when  fugitives  by  thousands  are  crowding  British 
shores,  she  would  enlist  for  them  the  sympathy  of  British  hearts. 

We,  in  America,  have  been  told  that  the  throne  of  earth's  might 
iest  nation  is  now  filled  by  one  less  adorned  by  all  this  world  can  give 
of  power  and  splendor,  than  by  a  good  and  noble  heart,  —  a  heart 
ever  ready  to  feel  for  the  suffering,  the  oppressed,  and  the  lowly. 

The  author  is  encouraged  by  the  thought  that  beneath  the  royal  in 
signia  of  England  throbs  that  woman's  and  mother's  heart.  May  she 
ask  that  he  who  is  nearest  to  her  would  present  to  her  notice  this 
simple  story.  Should  it  win  from  her  compassionate  nature  pitying 
thoughts  for  those  multitudes  of  poor  outcasts,  who  have  lied  for  shel 
ter  to  the  shadow  of  her  throne,  it  were  enough. 

May  the  blessing  of  God  rest  on  the  noble  country  from  which 
America  draws  her  lineage,  and  on  her  the  Queen  of  it.  Though  all 
the  thrones  be  shaken,  may  hers,  founded  deep  in  the  hearts  of  her 
subjects,  be  established  to  her  and  to  her  children,  through  all  gener 
ations  !  With  deep  respect, 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 
BRUNSWICK,  ME.,  March  20,  1852. 

Her  letter  to  Charles  Dickens  and  his  reply  are  as  follows :  — 
To  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  "  : 

The  Author  of  the  following  sketches  offers  them  to  your  notice  as 
the  first  writer  in  our  day  who  turned  the  attention  of  the  high  to  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  the  lowly.  In  searching  out  and  embellishing 
the  forlorn,  the  despised,  the  lonely,  the  neglected  and  forgotten, 
lies  the  true  mission  which  you  have  performed  for  the  world. 
There  is  a  moral  bearing  in  it  that  far  outweighs  the  amusement  of  a 
passing  hour.  If  I  may  hope  to  do  only  something  like  the  same,  for 
a  class  equally  ignored  and  despised  by  the  fastidious  and  refined  of 
my  country,  I  shall  be  happy.  Yours  very  truly, 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

TAVISTOCK  HOUSE,  LONDON,  July  17, 1852. 

DEAR  MADAM,  —  I  have  read  your  book  with  the  deepest  inter 
est  and  sympathy,  and  admire,  more  than  I  can  express  to  you,  both 


INTRODUCTION  XXI 

the  generous  feeling  which  inspired  it,  and  the  admirable  power  with 
which  it  is  executed. 

If  I  might  suggest  a  fault  in  what  has  so  charmed  me,  it  would  be 
that  you  go  too  far  and  seek  to  prove  too  much.  The  wrongs  and 
atrocities  of  slavery  are,  God  knows  !  case  enough.  I  doubt  there 
being  any  warrant  for  making  out  the  African  race  to  be  a  great 
race,  or  for  supposing  the  future  destinies  of  the  world  to  lie  in  that 
direction  ;  and  I  think  this  extreme  championship  likely  to  repel 
some  useful  sympathy  and  support. 

Your  book  is  worthy  of  any  head  and  any  heart  that  ever  inspired 
a  book.  I  am  much  your  debtor,  and  I  thank  you  most  fervently 
and  sincerely.  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

MRS.  HARRIET  B.  STOWE. 

The  following  is  the  letter  addressed  to  Macaulay,  and  his 
reply :  — 

HON.  T.  B.  MACAULAY  : 

One  of  the  most  vivid  recollections  of  my  early  life  is  the  enthusi 
asm  excited  by  reading  your  review  of  Milton,  an  enthusiasm  deep 
ened  as  I  followed  successively  your  writings  as  they  appeared.  A 
desire  to  hold  some  communion  with  minds  that  have  strongly 
swayed  and  controlled  our  own  is,  I  believe,  natural  to  every  one, 
and  suggested  to  my  mind  the  idea  of  presenting  to  you  this  work. 
When  a  child  between  eight  and  ten  years  of  age,  I  was  a  diligent 
reader  of  the  "  Christian  Observer,"  and  in  particular  of  the  articles 
in  which  the  great  battle  was  fought  against  the  slave-trade.  An  im 
pression  was  then  made  on  my  mind  which  will  never  be  obliterated. 
A  similar  conflict  is  now  convulsing  this  nation,  —  an  agitation  which 
every  successive  year  serves  to  deepen  and  widen.  In  this  conflict 
the  wise  and  good  of  other  lands  can  materially  aid  us. 

The  public  sentiment  of  Christianized  humanity  is  the  last  court  of 
appeal  in  which  the  cause  of  a  helpless  race  is  to  be  tried,  and  noth 
ing  operates  more  sensibly  on  this  country  than  the  temperate  and 
just  expression  of  the  sentiments  of  distinguished  men  in  your  own. 
Every  such  expression  is  a  shot  which  strikes  the  citadel.  There  is 
a  public  sentiment  on  this  subject  in  England  which  often  expresses 
itself  in  a  way  which  does  far  less  good  than  it  might  if  those  who 
expressed  it  had  a  more  accurate  knowledge  and  a  more  skilful 
touch,  and  yet  even  that  has  done  good,  though  it  has  done  harm 
also.  The  public  sentiment  of  nations  is  rising  to  be  a  power 
stronger  than  that  of  fleets  and  armies,  and  it  needs  to  be  skilfully 
and  wisely  guided.  He  who  should  direct  the  feelings  of  England 
on  tins  subject  wisely  and  effectively  might  do  a  work  worthy  of 


XX11  INTRODUCTION. 

your  father,  of  Clarkson  and  Wilberforce,  and  all  those  brave  men 
who  began  the  great  conflict  for  God  and  humanity. 

I  much  misjudge  your  mind  and  heart  if  the  subject  is  one  on 
which  you  can  be  indifferent,  or  can  speak  otherwise  than  justly,  hu 
manely,  and  effectively.  Yours  with  deep  respect, 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

BRUNSWICK,  ME.,  March  20, 1852. 

THE  ALBANY,  LONDON,  May  20,  1852. 

MADAM,  —  I  sincerely  thank  you  for  the  volumes  which  you  have 
done  me  the  honor  to  send  me.  I  have  read  them  —  I  cannot  say 
with  pleasure  ;  for  no  work  on  such  a  subject  can  give  pleasure,  but 
with  high  respect  for  the  talents  and  for  the  benevolence  of  the 
writer.  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  madam, 

Your  most  faithful  servant, 

T.  B.  MACAULAY. 

In  October  of  1856  Macaulay  wrote  to  Mrs.  Stowe :  — 

"  I  have  just  returned  from  Italy,  where  your  fame  seems  to 
throw  that  of  all  other  writers  into  the  shade.  There  is  no  place 
where  'Uncle  Tom'  (transformed  into  'II  Zio  Tom')  is  not  to  be 
found.  By  this  time  I  have  no  doubt  he  has  '  Dred  '  for  a  compan- 


Soon  after  Macaulay's  letter  came  to  her,  Mrs.  Stowe  began 
to  receive  letters  from  other  distinguished  persons  expressing  a 
far  warmer  sympathy  with  the  spirit  and  motive  of  her  work. 

FROM  LORD  CARLISLE. 

LONDON,  July  8, 1852. 

MADAM,  —  I  have  allowed  some  time  to  elapse  before  I  thanked 
you  for  the  great  honor  and  kindness  you  did  me  in  sending  to  me 
from  yourself  a  copy  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  I  thought  it  due  to 
the  subject  of  which  I  perceived  that  it  treated  not  to  send  a  mere 
acknowledgment,  as  I  confess  from  a  motive  of  policy  I  am  apt  to  do 
upon  the  first  arrival  of  a  book.  I  therefore  determined  to  read  be 
fore  I  wrote. 

Having  thus  read,  it  is  not  in  the  stiff  and  conventional  form  of 
compliment,  still  less  in  the  technical  language  of  criticism,  that  I 
am  about  to  speak  of  your  work.  I  return  my  deep  and  solemn 
thanks  to  Almighty  God,  who  has  led  and  enabled  you  to  write 
such  a  book.  I  do  feel,  indeed,  the  most  thorough  assurance  that, 
in  his  good  Providence,  such  a  book  cannot  have  been  written  in 


INTRODUCTION.  XX111 

vain.  I  have  lor.,  alt  that  Slavery  is  by  far  the  topping  question 
of  the  world  and  . ,  we  live  in,  including  all  that  is  most  thrilling 
in  heroism  and  most  touching  in  distress,  —  in  short,  the  real  Epic 
of  the  Universe.  The  self-interest  of  the  parties  most  nearly  con 
cerned  on  the  one  hand,  the  apathy  and  ignorance  of  unconcerned 
observers  on  the  other,  have  left  these  august  pretensions  to  drop 
very  much  out  of  sight,  and  hence  my  rejoicing  that  a  writer  has  ap-. 
peared  who  will  be  read  and  must  be  felt,  and  that,  happen  what 
may  to  the  transactions  of  slavery,  they  will  no  longer  be  sup 
pressed. 

I  trust  that  what  I  have  just  said  was  not  required  to  show  the  en 
tire  sympathy  I  entertain  with  respect  to  the  main  truth  and  leading 
scope  of  your  high  argument,  but  we  live  in  a  world  only  too  apt  to 
regard  the  accessories  and  accidents  of  a  subject  above  its  real  and 
vital  essence.  No  one  can  know  so  well  as  you  how  much  the  exter 
nal  appearance  of  the  negro  detracts  from  the  romance  and  senti 
ment  which  undoubtedly  might  attach  to  his  position  and  to  his 
wrongs  ;  and  on  this  account  it  does  seem  to  me  proportionately  im 
portant  that  you  should  have  brought  to  your  portraiture  great  grace 
of  style,  great  power  of  language,  a  play  of  humor  which  relieves 
and  lightens  even  the  dark  depth  of  the  background  which  you  were 
called  upon  to  reveal,  a  force  of  pathos  which,  to  give  it  the  highest 
praise,  does  not  lag  behind  all  the  dread  reality,  and,  above  all,  a  va 
riety,  a  discrimination,  and  a  truth  in  the  delineation  of  character 
which,  even  to  my  own  scanty  and  limited  experience  of  the  society 
you  describe,  accredits  itself  instantaneously  and  irresistibly.  There 
is  one  point  which,  in  face  of  all  that  your  book  lias  aimed  at  and 
achieved,  I  think  of  extremely  slight  importance,  but  which  I  will 
nevertheless  just  mention,  if  only  to  show  that  I  have  not  been 
bribed  into  this  fervor  of  admiration.  I  think,  then,  that  whenever 
you  speak  of  England  and  her  institutions  it  is  in  atone  which  fails  to 
do  them  justice.  I  do  not  know  what  distinct  charges  you  think 
could  be  established  against  our  aristocracy  and  capitalists  ;  but  you 
generally  convey  the  impression  that  the  same  oppressions  in  degree, 
though  not  in  kind,  might  be  brought  home  to  them  which  are  now 
laid  to  the  charge  of  southern  slave-holders.  Exposed  to  the  same 
ordeal,  I  grant  they  might  very  probably  not  stand  the  test  better. 
All  I  contend  for  is,  that  the  circumstances  in  which  they  are  placed, 
and  the  institutions  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  make  the  parallel 
wholly  inapplicable.  I  cannot  but  suspect  that  your  view  has  been 
in  many  respects  derived  from  composers  of  fiction  and  others  among 
ourselves,  who,  writing  with  distinguished  ability,  have  been  more 
successful  in  delineating  and  dissecting  the  morbid  features  of  our 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

modern  society  than  in  detecting  the  princip*  which  is  at  fault  or 
suggesting  the  appropriate  remedy.  My  own  "belief  is  — liable,  if 
you  please,  to  national  bias  —  that  our  capitalists  are  very  much  the 
same  sort  of  persons  as  your  own  in  the  Northern  States,  with  the 
same  mixtures  and  inequalities  of  motive  and  action.  With  respect 
to  our  aristocracy,  I  should  really  be  tempted  to  say  that,  tried  by 
their  conduct  on  the  question  of  Free  Trade,  they  do  not  sustain  an 
unfavorable  comparison  with  your  uppermost  classes.  I  need  not 
repeat  how  irrelevant,  after  all,  I  feel  what  I  have  said  upon  this 
head  to  be  to  the  main  issues  included  in  your  work.  There  is  little 
doubt,  too,  that  as  a  nation  we  have  our  special  failings,  and  one  of 
them  probably  is  that  we  care  too  little  about  what  other  nations 
think  of  us.  Nor  can  I  wish  my  countrymen  ever  to  forget  that 
their  own  past  history  should  prevent  them  from  being  forward  in 
casting  accusations  at  their  transatlantic  brethren  on  the  subject  of 
slavery.  With  great  ignorance  of  its  actual  miseries  and  horrors, 
there  is  also  among  us  great  ignorance  of  the  fearful  perplexities  and 
difficulties  with  which  its  solution  could  not  fail  to  be  attended.  I 
feel,  however,  that  there  is  a  considerable  difference  between  reluc 
tant  acquiescence  in  what  you  inherit  from  the  past,  and  voluntary 
fresh  enlargements  and  reinforcements  of  the  system.  For  instance, 
I  should  not  say  that  the  mode  in  which  such  an  enactment  as  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law  has  been  considered  in  this  country  has  at  all 
erred  upon  the  side  of  overmuch  indignation. 

I  need  not  detain  you  longer.  I  began  my  letter  with  returning 
&banks  to  Almighty  God  for  the  appearance  of  your  work,  and  I  offer 
my  humble  and  ardent  prayer  to  the  same  Supreme  Source' "that  it 
may  have  a  marked  agency  in  hastening  the  great  consummation, 
which  I  should  feel  it  a  practical  atheism  not  to  believe  must  be 
among  the  unfulfilled  purposes  of  the  Divine  Power  and  Love. 
I  have  the  honor  to  be,  madam, 

Your  sincere  admirer  and  well-wisher, 

CARLISLE. 

MRS.  BEECHER  STOWE. 

FROM  REV.  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

EVERSLEY,  August  12,  1852. 

MY  DEAR  MADAM,  —  Illness  and  anxiety  have  prevented  my  ac 
knowledging  long  ere  this  your  kind  letter  and  your  book,  which,  if 
success  be  a  pleasure  to  you,  has  a  success  in  England  which  few 
novels,  and  certainly  no  American  book  whatsoever,  ever  had.  I  can 
not  tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  to  see  coming  from  across  the  Atlantic 
a  really  healthy  indigenous  growth,  "  autochthones,"  free  from  ail 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

second  and  third  ha^d  Germanisms  and  Italianisms,  and  all  other  un- 
realisms. 

Your  book  will  do  more  to  take  away  the  reproach  from  your  great 
and  growing  nation  than  many  platform  agitations  and  speechifyings. 

Here  there  is  but  one  opinion  about  it.  Lord  Carlisle  (late  Mor- 
peth)  assured  me  that  he  believed  the  book,  independent  of  its  artis 
tic  merit  (of  which  hereafter),  calculated  to  produce  immense  good, 
and  he  can  speak  better  concerning  it  than  I  can,  for  I  pay  you  a 
compliment  in  saying  that  I  have  actually  not  read  it  through.  It  is 
too  painful,  —  I  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  misery  and  wrong  that  I  can 
<io  nothing  to  alleviate.  But  I  will  read  it  through  and  reread  it  in 
due  time,  though  when  I  have  done  so,  I  shall  have  nothing  more  to 
Bay  than  what  every  one  says  now,  that  it  is  perfect. 

I  cannot  resist  transcribing  a  few  lines  which  I  received  this 
morning  from  an  excellent  critic  :  "  To  my  mind  it  is  the  greatest 
novel  ever  written,  and  though  it  will  seem  strange,  it  reminded  me 
in  a  lower  sphere  more  of  Shakespeare  than  anything  modern  I  have 
ever  read  ;  not  in  the  style,  nor  in  the  humor,  nor  in  the  pathos,  — 
though  Eva  set  me  a  crying  worse  than  Cordelia  did  at  sixteen,  — 
but  in  the  many-sidedness,  and,,  above  all,  in  that  marvellous  clear 
ness  of  insight  and  outsight,  which  makes  it  seemingly  impossible  for 
her  to  see  any  one  of  her  characters  without  showing  him  or  her  at 
once  as  a  distinct  man  or  woman  different  from  all  others." 

I  have  a  debt  of  personal  thanks  to  you  for  the  book,  also,  from  a 
most  noble  and  great  woman,  my  own  mother,  a  West-Indian,  who 
in  great  sickness  and  sadness  read  your  book  with  delighted  tears. 
What  struck  her  was  the  way  in  which  you,  first  of  all  writers,  she 
said,  had  dived  down  into  the  depths  of  the  negro  heart,  and  brought 
out  his  common  humanity  without  losing  hold  for  a  moment  of  his 
race  peculiarities.  But  I  must  really  praise  you  no  more  to  your 
face,  lest  I  become  rude  and  fulsome.  May  God  bless  and  prosper 
you,  and  all  you  write,  is  the  earnest  prayer,  and,  if  you  go  on  as  you 
have  begun,  the  assured  hope,  of  your  faithful  and  obliged  servant, 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

FROM  THE  EARL  OF  SHAFTESBURY.! 

LONDON,  December  14,  1852. 

MADAM,  —  It  is  very  possible  that  the  writer  of  this  letter  may 
be  wholly  unknown  to  you.  But  whether  my  name  be  familiar  to 
your  ears,  or  whether  you  now  read  it  for  the  first  time,  I  cannot 
refrain  from  expressing  to  you  the  deep  gratitude  that  I  feel  to  Al 
mighty  God,  who  has  inspired  both  your  heart  and  your  head  in  the 
composition  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin." 

1  Formerly  Lord  Ashley. 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

It  would  be  out  of  place  here  to  enumerate  the  various  beauties, 
singular,  original,  and  lasting,  which  shine  throughout  the  work.  One 
conviction,  however,  is  constantly  present  to  my  mind,  —  the  convic 
tion  that  the  gospel  alone  can  elevate  the  intellect,  even  to  the  high 
est  point.  None  but  a  Christian  believer  could  have  composed 
"  Paradise  Lost."  None  but  a  Christian  believer  could  have  pro 
duced  such  a  book  as  yours,  which  has  absolutely  startled  the  whole 
\vorld,  and  impressed  many  thousands  by  revelations  of  cruelty  and 
sin  which  give  us  an  idea  of  what  would  be  the  uncontrolled  dominion 
of  Satan  on  this  fallen  earth. 

Your  character  of  Eva  is  true.  I  have,  allowing  for  the  difference 
in  sex,  and  the  influences  of  a  southern  as  compared  with  a  northern 
climate,  seen  such  myself  in  zeal,  simplicity,  and  overflowing  affection 
to  God  and  man.  It  pleases  God  to  show,  every  now  and  then,  such 
specimens  of  his  grace,  and  then  remove  them  before  they  are  tar 
nished  by  the  world. 

You  are  right,  too,  about  Topsy.  Our  Ragged  Schools  will  afford 
you  many  instances  of  poor  children,  hardened  by  kicks,  insults,  and 
neglect,  moved  to  tears  and  to  docility  by  the  first  word  of  kindness. 
It  opens  new  feelings,  develops,  as  it  were,  a  new  nature,  and  brings 
the  wretched  outcast  into  the  family  of  man.  I  live  in  hope  —  God 
grant  it  may  rise  to  faith  !  —  that  this  system  is  drawing  to  a  close. 
It  seems  as  though  our  Lord  had  sent  out  this  book  as  the  messenger 
before  his  face  to  prepare  his  way  before  him.  It  may  be  that  these 
unspeakable  horrors  are  now  disclosed  to  drive  us  to  the  only  "  hope 
of  all  the  ends  of  the  earth,"  the  second  advent  of  our  blessed  Sav 
iour.  Let  us  continue,  as  St.  Paul  says,  "fervent  and  instant  in 
prayer,"  and  may  we  at  the  great  day  of  account  be  found,  with  mil 
lions  of  this  oppressed  race,  among  the  sheep  at  the  right  hand  of  our 
common  Lord  and  Master  ! 

Believe  me,  madam,  with  deep  respect, 

Your  sincere  admirer  and  servant, 

SHAFTESBURY. 

MRS.  HARRIET  BEECHER   STOWE. 

About  the  same  time  with  this,  Mrs.  Stowe  received  a  letter 
from  Hon.  Arthur  Helps,  accompanying  a  review  of  her  work, 
written  by  himself,  in  a  leading  periodical.  The  main  subject 
of  Mr.  Helps's  letter  was  the  one  already  alluded  to  in  Lord 
Carlisle's  letter,  on  the  relation  of  the  capitalists  and  higher 
classes  of  England  to  the  working-classes,  as  compared  with  the 
relations  of  slave-holders  and  slaves  in  America.  Her  reply  to 
this  letter  being  shown  to  Archbishop  Whately,  she  was  surprised 
by  a  letter  from  him  to  the  following  purport :  — 


INTRODUCTION. 

MA  DAM,  —  The  writer  of  the  article  in  "  Fraser's  Magazine  "  has 
favored  me  with  a  copy  of  your  most  interesting  letter  to  him,  and 
from  it  I  collect  that  you  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  I  have  been  ne 
gotiating  for  the  insertion  of  articles  by  very  able  hands  on  your 
truly  valuable  work  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  and  the  "  North 
British,"  both  which  are  of  wider  circulation  and  more  influence  than 
that  magazine. 

The  subject  was  discussed  at  the  Statistical  Section,  of  which  I  was 
president,  of  the  British  Association  meeting  in  Belfast,  and  I  then 
took  occasion  to  call  attention  to  your  work. 

It  became  evident,  then,  that  the  book  had  found  powerful 
support  and  sympathy  on  English  shores. 

Sampson  Low,  who  afterwards  became  Mrs.  Stowe's  English 
publisher,  thus  records  its  success  in  England  :  — 

"From  April  to  December,  1852,  twelve  different  editions  (not 
reissues)  at  one  shilling  were  published,  and  within  the  twelve  months 
of  its  first  appearance  no  less  than  eighteen  different  houses  in  London 
were  engaged  in  supplying  the  demand  that  had  set  in.  The  total 
number  of  editions  was  forty,  varying  from  the  fine  illustrated  edition 
of  15s.  to  the  cheap  popular  one  at  6d. 

"  After  carefully  analyzing  these  editions  and  weighing  probabili 
ties  with  ascertained  facts,  I  am  able  pretty  confidently  to  say  that 
the  aggregate  number  circulated  in  Great  Britain  and  her  colonies 
exceeded  one  million  and  a  half." 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Stowe  received  intelligence  of  its  appearance 
in  Sweden  from  the  pen  of  the  accomplished  Frederika  Bremer. 

FROM  FREDERIKA  BREMER. 

STOCKHOLM,  January  4,  1853. 

MY  DEAREST  LADY,  —  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  your  most  pre 
cious,  most  delightful  gift  ?  Could  I  have  taken  your  hand  many  a 
time,  while  I  was  reading  your  work,  and  laid  it  on  my  beating  heart, 
you  would  have  known  the  joy,  the  happiness,  the  exultation,  it  made 
me  experience  !  It  was  the  work  I  had  long  wished  for,  that  I  had  an 
ticipated,  that  I  wished  while  in  America  to  have  been  able  to  write, 
that  I  thought  must  come  in  America,  as  the  uprising  of  the  woman's 
and  mother's  heart  on  the  question  of  slavery.  I  wondered  that  it 
had  not  come  earlier.  I  wondered  that  the  woman,  the  mother,  could 
look  at  these  things  and  be  silent,  —  that  no  cry  of  noble  indignation 
and  anger  would  escape  her  breast,  and  rend  the  air,  and  pierce  to 
the  ear  of  humanity.  I  wondered,  and,  God  be  praised  !  it  has  come. 


XXV111  INTRODUCTION. 

The  woman,  the  mother,  has  raised  her  voice  out  of  the  very  soil  of 
the  new  world  in  behalf  of  the  wronged  ones,  and  her  voice  vibrates 
still  through  two  great  continents,  opening  all  hearts  and  minds  to  the 
light  of  truth. 

How  happy  you  are  to  have  been  able  to  do  it  so  well,  to  have  been 
able  to  win  all  hearts  while  you  so  daringly  proclaimed  strong  and 
bitter  truths,  to  charm  while  you  instructed,  to  amuse  while  you  de 
fended  the  cause  of  the  little  ones,  to  touch  the  heart  with  the  softest 
sorrow  while  you  aroused  all  our  boldest  energies  against  the  powers 
of  despotism. 

In  Sweden  your  work  has  been  translated  and  published,  as  feuille- 
ton  in  our  largest  daily  paper,  and  has  been  read,  enjoyed,  and  praised 
by  men  and  women  of  all  parties  as  I  think  no  book  here  has  been 
enjoyed  and  praised  before.  ...  I  look  upon  you  as  a  heroine  who 
has  won  the  battle.  I  think  it  is  won  !  I  have  a  deep  unwavering 
faith  in  the  strong  humanity  of  the  American  mind.  It  will  ever 
work  to  throw  out  whatever  is  at  war  with  that  humanity  ;  and  to 
make  it  fully  alive,  nothing  is  needed  but  a  truly  strong  appeal  of 
heart  to  heart,  and  that  has  been  done  in  "  Uncle  Tom." 

You  have  done  it,  dear,  blessed,  happy  lady.  Receive  in  these 
poor  words  my  congratulations,  my  expressions  of  love  and  joy,  my 
womanly  pride  in  you  as  my  sister  in  faith  and  love.  God  bless  you 
forever ! 

FREDERIKA  BREMER, 

The  author  also  received  letters  from  France,  announcing  the  en 
thusiastic  reception  of  her  work  there.  Madame  George  Sand,  then 
one  of  the  greatest  powers  of  the  literary  world  of  France,  thus  in 
troduced  it  to  the  public  :  — 

To  review  a  book  the  very  morrow  after  its  appearance,  in  the  very 
journal  where  it  has  just  been  published,  is  doubtless  contrary  to 
usage,  but  in  this  case  it  is  the  most  disinterested  homage  that  can  be 
rendered,  since  the  immense  success  attained  by  this  work  at  its  pub 
lication  does  not  need  to  be  set  forth. 

This  book  is  in  all  hands  and  in  all  journals.  It  has,  and  will  have, 
editions  in  every  form  ;  people  devour  it,  they  cover  it  with  tears. 
It  is  no  longer  permissible  to  those  who  can  read  not  to  have  read  it, 
and  one  mourns  that  there  are  so  many  souls  condemned  never  to 
read  it,  —  helots  of  poverty,  slaves  through  ignorance,  for  whom  so 
ciety  has  been  unable  as  yet  to  solve  the  double  problem  of  uniting 
the  food  of  the  body  with  the  food  of  the  soul. 

It  is  not,  then,  it  cannot  be,  an  officious  and  needless  task  to  re 
view  this  book  of  Mrs.  Stowe.  We  repeat,  it  is  a  homage,  and 


INTRODUCTION.  XXIX 

never  did  a  generous  and  pure  work  merit  one  more  tender  and 
spontaneous.  She  is  far  from  us  ;  we  do  not  know  her  who  has  pen 
etrated  our  hearts  with  emotions  so  sad  and  yet  so  sweet.  Let  us 
thank  her  the  more.  Let  the  gentle  voice  of  woman,  the  generous 
voice  of  man,  with  the  voices  of  little  children,  so  adorably  glorified 
in  this  book,  and  those  of  the  oppressed  of  this  old  world,  let  them 
cross  the  seas  and  hasten  to  say  to  her  that  she  is  esteemed  and  be 
loved  ! 

If  the  best  eulogy  which  one  can  make  of  the  author  is  to  love 
her,  the  truest  that  one  can  make  of  the  book  is  to  love  its  very 
faults.  It  has  faults,  —  we  need  not  pass  them  in  silence,  we  need 
not  evade  the  discussion  of  them,  —  but  you  need  not  be  disturbed 
about  them,  you  who  are  rallied  on  the  tears  you  have  shed  over  the 
fortunes  of  the  poor  victims  in  a  narrative  so  simple  and  true. 

These  defects  exist  only  in  relation  to  the  conventional  rules  of 
art,  which  never  have  been  and  never  will  be  absolute.  If  its  judges, 
possessed  with  the  love  of  what  they  call  "artistic  work,"  find  un 
skilful  treatment  in  the  book,  look  well  at  them  to  see  if  their  eyes 
are  dry  when  they  are  reading  this  or  that  chapter. 

They  will  recall  to  your  mind  that  Ohio  senator,  who,  having 
sagely  demonstrated  to  his  little  wife  that  it  is  a  political  duty  to  re 
fuse  asylum  and  help  to  the  fugitive  slave,  ends  by  taking  two  in  his 
own  carriage,  in  a  dark  night,  over  fearful  roads,  where  he  must 
from  time  to  time  plunge  into  mud  to  his  waist  to  push  on  the  ve 
hicle.  This  charming  episode  in  "  Uncle  Tom  "  (a  digression,  if  you 
will)  paints  well  the  situation  of  most  men  placed  between  th«ir 
prejudices  and  established  modes  of  thought  and  the  spontaneous 
and  generous  intuitions  of  their  hearts. 

It  is  the  history,  at  the  same  time  affecting  and  pleasing,  of  many 
independent  critics.  Whatever  they  may  be  in  the  matter  of  social 
or  literary  questions,  those  who  pretend  always  to  judge  by  strict 
rules  are  often  vanquished  by  their  own  feelings,  and  sometimes 
vanquished  when  unwilling  to  avow  it. 

I  have  always  been  charmed  by  the  anecdote  of  Voltaire,  ridiculing 
and  despising  the  fables  of  La  Fontaine,  seizing  the  book  and  saying, 
"  Look  here,  now,  you  will  see  in  the  very  first  one  "  —  he  reads  one. 
"  Well,  that  is  passable,  but  see  how  stupid' ^this  is!"  —  he  reads  a 
second,  and  finds  after  all  that  it  is  quite  pretty  ;  a  third  disarms 
him  again,  and  at  last  he  throws  down  the  volume,  saying,  with  in 
genuous  spite,  "It  's  nothing  but  a  collection  of  masterpieces." 
Great  souls  may  be  bilious  and  vindictive,  but  it  is  impossible  for 
them  to  remain  unjust  and  insensible. 

It,  however,  shoul;1.  be  said  to  people  of  culture,  who  profess  to  be 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

able  to  give  correct  judgments,  that  if  their  culture  is  of  the  truest 
kind  it  will  never  resist  a  just  and  right  emotion.  Therefore  it  is 
that  this  book,  defective  according  to  the  rules  of  the  modern  French 
romance,  intensely  interests  everybody  and  triumphs  over  all  criti 
cisms  in  the  discussions  it  causes  in  domestic  circles. 

For  this  book  is  essentially  domestic  and  of  the  family, — this 
book,  with  its  long  discussions,  its  minute  details,  its  portraits  care 
fully  studied.  Mothers  of  families,  young  girls,  little  children,  ser 
vants  even,  can  read  and  understand  them,  and  men  themselves,  even 
the  most  superior,  cannot  disdain  them.  We  do  not  say  that  the 
success  of  the  book  is  because  its  great  merits  redeem  its  faults  ;  we 
say  its  success  is  because  of.  these  very  alleged  faults. 

For  a  long  time  we  have  striven  in  France  against  the  prolix  expla 
nations  of  Walter  Scott.  We  have  cried  out  against  those  of  Balzac, 
but  on  consideration  have  perceived  that  the  painter  of  manners  and 
character  has  never  done  too  much,  that  every  stroke  of  the  pencil 
was  needed  for  the  general  effect.  Let  us  learn  then  to  appreciate 
all  kinds  of  treatment,  when  the  effect  is  good,  and  when  they  bear 
the  seal  of  a  master  hand. 

Mrs.  Stowe  is  all  instinct  ;  it  is  the  very  reason  that  she  appears 
to  some  not  to  have  talent.  Has  she  not  talent  ?  What  is  talent  ? 
Nothing,  doubtless,  compared  to  genius  ;  but  has  she  genius  ?  I  can 
not  say  that  she  has  talent  as  one  understands  it  in  the  world  of  let 
ters,  but  she  has  genius,  as  humanity  feels  the  need  of  genius,  —  the 
genius  of  goodness,  not  that  of  the  man  of  letters,  but  of  the  saint. 
Yes,  —  a  saint !  Thrice  holy  the  soul  which  thus  loves,  blesses,  and 
consoles  the  martyrs.  Pure,  penetrating,  and  profound  the  spirit 
which  thus  fathoms  the  recesses  of  the  human  soul.  Noble,  gen 
erous,  and  great  the  heart  which  embraces  in  her  pity,  in  her  love,  an 
entire  race,  trodden  down  in  blood  and  mire  under  the  whip  of  ruf 
fians  and  the  maledictions  of  the  impious. 

Thus  should  it  be,  thus  should  we  value  things  ourselves.  We 
should  feel  that  genius  is  heart,  that  power  is  faith,  that  talent  is  sin 
cerity)  and,  finally,  success  is  sympathy,  since  this  book  overcomes  us, 
since  it  penetrates  the  breast,  pervades  the  spirit,  and  fills  us  with  a 
strange  sentiment  of  mingled  tenderness  and  admiration  for  a  poor 
negro  lacerated  by  blows,  prostrate  in  the  dust,  there  gasping  on  a 
miserable  pallet,  his  last  sigh  exhaled  towards  God. 

In  matters  of  art  there  is  but  one  rule,  to  paint  and  to  move.  And 
where  shall  we  find  creations  more  complete,  types  more  vivid,  situa 
tions  more  touching,  more  original,  than  in  "Uncle  Tom,"  —  those 
beautiful  relations  of  the  slave  with  the  child  of  his  master,  indi 
cating  a  state  of  things  unknown  among  us  ;  the  protest  of  the 


INTRODUCTION,  XXXI 

master  himself  against  slavery  during  that  innocent  part  of  life 
when  his  soul  belongs  to  God  alone  ?  Afterwards,  when  society 
takes  him,  the  law  chases  away  God,  and  interest  deposes  conscience. 
In  coining  to  mature  years  the  infant  ceases  to  be  man  and  becomes 
master.  God  dies  in  his  soul. 

What  hand  has  ever  drawn  a  type  more  fascinating  and  admirable 
Chan  St.  Clare,  —  this  exceptional  nature,  noble,  generous,  and  loving, 
but  too  soft  and  too  nonchalant  to  be  really  great  ?  Is  it  not  man 
himself,  human  nature  itself,  with  its  innate  virtues,  its  good  aspira 
tions,  and  its  deplorable  failures  ?  —  this  charming  master  who  loves 
and  is  beloved,  who  thinks  and  reasons,  but  concludes  nothing  and 
does  nothing  !  He  spends  in  his  day  treasures  of  indulgence,  of 
consideration,  of  goodness  ;  he  dies  without  having  accomplished 
anything.  Tiie  story  of  his  precious  life  is  all  told  in  a  word  —  "to 
aspire  and  to  regret."  He  has  never  learned  to  will.  Alas  !  is  there 
not  something  of  this  even  among  the  bravest  and  best  of  men  ? 

The  life  and  death  of  a  little  child  and  of  a  negro  slave  !  —  that 
is  the  whole  book  !  This  negro  and  this  child  are  two  saints  of 
heaven  !  The  affection  that  unites  them,  the  respect  of  these  two 
perfect  ones  for  each  other,  is  the  only  love-story,  the  only  passion 
of  the  drama.  I  know  not  what  other  genius  but  that  of  sanctity 
itself  could  shed  over  this  affection  and  this  situation  a  charm  so 
powerful  and  so  sustained.  The  child  reading  the  Bible  on  the  knees 
of  the  slave,  dreaming  over  its  mysteries  and  enjoying  them  in  her 
exceptional  maturity  ;  now  covering  him  with  flowers  like  a  doll,  and 
now  looking  to  him  as  something  sacred,  passing  from  tender  play 
fulness  to  tender  veneration,  and  then  fading  away  through  a  mys 
terious  malady  which  seems  to  be  nothing  but  the  wearing  of  pity  in 
a  nature  too  pure,  too  divine,  to  accept  earthly  law  ;  dying  finally 
in  the  arms  of  the  slave,  and  calling  him  after  her  to  the  bosom  of 
God,  —  all  this  is  so  new,  so  beautiful,  that  one  asks  one's  self  in 
thinking  of  it  whether  the  success  which  has  attended  the  work  is 
after  all  equal  to  the  height  of  the  conception. 

Children  are  the  true  heroes  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  works.  Her  soul, 
the  most  motherly  that  could  be,  has  conceived  of  these  little  crea 
tures  in  a  halo  of  grace.  George  Shelby,  the  little  Harry,  the  cousin 
of  Eva,  the  regretted  babe  of  the  little  wife  of  the  Senator,  and 
Topsy,  the  poor  diabolic,  excellent  Topsy,  —  all  the  children  that  one 
sees,  and  even  those  that  one  does  not  see  in  this  romance,  but  of 
whom  one  has  only  a  few  words  from  their  desolate  mothers,  seem  to 
us  a  world  of  little  angels,  white  and  black,  where  any  mother  may 
recognize  some  darling  of  her  own,  source  of  her  joys  and  tears.  In 
taking  form  in  the  spirit  of  Mrs.  Stowe,  ihese  children,  without 


XXX11  INTRODUCTION. 

ceasing  to  be  children,  assume  ideal  graces,  and  come  at  last  to  in 
terest  us  more  than  the  personages  of  an  ordinary  love-story. 

Women,  too,  are  here  judged  and  painted  with  a  master  hand  ; 
not  merely  mothers  who  are  sublime,  but  women  who  are  not  mothers 
either  in  heart  or  in  fact,  and  whose  infirmities  are  treated  with  in 
dulgence  or  with  rigor.  By  the  side  of  the  methodical  Miss  Ophelia, 
who  ends  by  learning  that  duty  is  good  for  nothing  without  love; 
Marie  St.  Clare  is  a  frightfully  truthful  portrait.  One  shudders  in 
thinking  that  she  exists,  that  she  is  everywhere,  that  each  of  us  has 
met  her  and  seen  her,  perhaps,  not  far  from  us,  for  it  is  only  nec 
essary  that  this  charming  creature  should  have  slaves  to  torture,  and 
we  should  see  her  revealed  complete  through  her  vapors  and  her 
nervous  complaints. 

The  saints  also  have  their  claw  !  it  is  that  of  the  lion.  She  buries 
it  deep  in  the  conscience,  and  a  little  of  burning  indignation  and  of 
terrible  sarcasm  does  not,  after  all,  misbecome  this  Harriet  Stowe, 
this  woman  so  gentle,  so  humane,  so  religious,  and  full  of  evangel 
ical  unction.  Ah  !  yes,  she  is  a  very  good  woman,  but  not  what  we 
derisively  call  "goody  good."  Hers  is  a  heart  strong  and  coura 
geous,  which  in  blessing  the  unhappy  and  applauding  the  faithful, 
tending  the  feeble  and  succoring  the  irresolute,  does  not  hesitate  to 
bind  to  the  pillory  the  hardened  tyrant,  to  show  to  the  world  his  de 
formity. 

She  is,  in  the  true  spirit  of  the  word,  consecrated.  Her  fervent 
Christianity  sings  the  praise  of  the  martyr,  but  permits  no  man  the 
right  to  perpetuate  the  wrong.  She  denounces  that  strange  perver 
sion  of  Scriptiire  which  tolerates  the  iniquity  of  the  oppressor  be 
cause  it  gives  opportunity  for  the  virtues  of  the  victims.  She  calls 
on  God  himself,  and  threatens  in  his  name  ;  she  shows  us  human  law 
on  one  side,  and  God  on  the  other  ! 

Let  no  one  say  that,  because  she  exhorts  to  patient  endurance  of 
wrong,  she  justifies  those  who  do  the  wrong.  Read  the  beautiful 
page  where  George  Harris,  the  white  slave,  embraces  for  the  first 
time  the  shores  of  a  free  territory,  and  presses  to  his  heart  wife 
and  child,  who  at  last  are  his  own.  What  a  beautiful  picture,  that ! 
What  a  large  heart-throb  !  what  a  triumphant  protest  of  the  eternal 
and  inalienable  right  of  man  to  liberty  ! 

Honor  and  respect  to  you,  Mrs.  Stowe  !  Some  day  your  recom 
pense,  which  is  already  recorded  in  heaven,  will  come  also  in  this 
world.  GEORGE  SAXD. 

NOHANT,  December  17,  1852. 

Madame  L.  S.  Belloc,  also  a  well-known  and  distinguished 
writer,  the  translator  of  Miss  Edge  worth's  and  of  other  English 
works  into  French,  says  :  — 


INTRODUCTION.  XXX111 

"When  the  first  translation  of '  Uncle  Tom '  was  published  in  Paris 
there  was  a  general  hallelujah  for  the  author  and  for  the  cause.  A 
few  weeks  after,  M.  Charpentier,  one  of  our  best  publishers,  called 
on  me  to  ask  a  new  translation.  I  objected  that  there  were  already 
so  many  it  might  prove  a  failure.  He  insisted,  saying,  '  II  n'y  aura 
jamais  assez  de  lecteurs  pour  un  tel  livre,'  and  he  particularly  desired 
a  special  translation  for  his  own  collection,  '  Bibliotheque  Charpen 
tier,'  where  it  is  catalogued,  and  where  it  continues  now  to  sell  daily. 
'  La  Case  de  POncle  Tom'  was  the  fifth,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  and  a 
sixth  illustrated  edition  appeared  some  months  after.  It  was  read 
by  high  and  low,  by  grown  persons  and  children.  A  great  enthusi 
asm  for  the  anti-slavery  cause  was  the  result.  The  popularity  of 
the  work  in  France  was  immense,  and  no  doubt  influenced  the  public 
mind  in  favor  of  the  north  during  the  war  of  secession." 

The  next  step  in  the  history  of  "  Uncle  Tom  "  was  a  meeting 
at  Stafford  House,  when  Lord  Shaftesbury  recommended  to 
the  women  of  England  the  sending  of  an  "  affectionate  and 
Christian  address  to  the  women  of  America." 

This  address,  composed  by  Lord  Shaftesbury,  was  taken 
in  hand  for  signatures  by  energetic  canvassers  in  all  parts  of 
England,  and  also  among  resident  English  on  the  Continent. 
The  demand  for  signatures  went  as  far  forth  as  the  city  of  Jeru 
salem.  When  all  the  signatures  were  collected,  the  document 
was  forwarded  to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Stowe  in  America,  with  a 
letter  from  Lord  Carlisle,  recommending  it  to  her,  to  be  pre 
sented  to  the  ladies  of  America  in  such  way  as  she  should  see 
fit. 

It  was  exhibited  first  at  the  Boston  Anti-slavery  fair,  and 
now  remains  in  its  solid  oak  case  a  lasting  monument  of  the 
feeling  called  forth  by  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin." 

It  is  in  twenty-six  thick  folio  volumes,  solidly  bound  in  mo 
rocco,  with  the  American  eagle  on  the  back  of  each.  On  the 
first  page  of  the  first  volume  is  the  address,  beautifully  illu 
minated  on  vellum,  and  following  are  the  subscribers'  names, 
filling  the  volumes.  There  are  562,448  names  of  women  of 
every  rank  of  life,  from  the  nearest  in  rank  to  the  throne  of 
England  to  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  humblest  artisan 
and  laborer.  Among  all  who  signed,  it  is  fair  to  presume  there 
was  not  one  who  had  not  read  the  book,  and  did  not,  at  the 
time  of  signing,  feel  a  sympathy  for  the  cause  of  the  oppressed 


XXXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

people  whose  wrongs  formed  its  subject.  The  address,  with 
its  many  signatures,  was  simply  a  relief  to  that  impulsive  desire 
to  do  something  for  the  cause  of  the  slave,  which  the  reading  of 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  appeared  to  inspire. 

Of  the  wisdom  of  this  step  there  have  been  many  opinions. 
Nobody,  however,  can  doubt  that  Lord  Shaftesbury,  who  had 
spent  a  long  life  in  labors  to  lift  burdens  from  the  working- 
classes  of  England,  and  who  had  redeemed  from  slavery  and 
degradation  English  women  and  children  in  its  mines  and  col 
lieries,  had  thereby  acquired  a  certain  right  to  plead  for  the 
cause  of  the  oppressed  working-classes  in  all  countries. 

The  address  was  received  as  a  welcome  word  of  cheer  and 
encouragement  by  that  small  band  of  faithful  workers  who  for 
years  had  stood  in  an  unfashionable  minority ;  but  so  far  as  the 
feeling  expressed  in  it  was  one  of  real  Christian  kindliness  and 
humility,  it  was  like  a  flower  thrown  into  the  white  heat  of  a 
furnace.  It  added  intensity,  if  that  were  possible,  to  that  ter 
rific  conflict  of  forces  which  was  destined  never  to  cease  till 
slavery  was  finally  abolished. 

It  was  a  year  after  the  publication  of  "  Uncle  Tom  "  that 
Mrs.  Stowe  visited  England,  and  was  received  at  Stafford  House, 
there  meeting  all  the  best  known  and  best  worth  knowing  of  the 
higher  circles  of  England. 

The  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  then  in  the  height  of  that  majes 
tic  beauty  and  that  noble  grace  of  manner  which  made  her  a 
fit  representative  of  English  womanhood,  took  pleasure  in  show 
ing  by  this  demonstration  the  sympathy  of  the  better  class  of 
England  with  that  small  unpopular  party  in  the  United  States 
who  stood  for  the  rights  of  the  slave. 

On  this  occasion  she  presented  Mrs.  Stowe  with  a  solid  gold 
bracelet  made  in  the  form  of  a  slave's  shackle,  with  the  words, 
"  We  trust  it  is  a  memorial  of  a  chain  that  is  soon  to  be  broken." 
On  two  of  the  links  were  inscribed  the  date  of  the  abolition  of 
the  slave-trade,  March  25,  1807,  and  of  slavery  in  English  ter 
ritory,  August  1, 1834.  On  another  link  was  recorded  the  num 
ber  of  signatures  to  the  address  of  the  women  of  England. 

At  the  time  such  a  speech  and  the  hope  it  expressed  seemed 
like  a  Utopian  dream.  Yet  that  bracelet  has  now  inscribed 
upon  its  other  links  the  steps  of  American  emancipation ; 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXV 

**  Emancipation  in  District  of  Columbia,  April  16,  1862 ; " 
"  President's  proclamation  abolishing  slavery  in  rebel  states, 
January  1,  1863;"  "Maryland  free,  October  13,  1864;" 
"  Missouri  free,  January  11,  1865."  "  Constitutional  amend 
ment  "  (forever  abolishing  slavery  in  the  United  States)  is  in 
scribed  on  the  clasp  of  the  bracelet.  Thus  what  seemed  the 
vaguest  and  most  sentimental  possibility  has  become  a  fact  of 
history. 

A  series  of  addresses  presented  to  Mrs.  Stowe  at  this  time  by 
public  meetings  in  different  towns  of  England,  Scotland,  and 
Ireland,  still  remain  among  the  literary  curiosities  relating  to 
this  book.  The  titles  of  these  are  somewhat  curious  :  "  Ad 
dress  from  the  Inhabitants  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed ;  "  "  Ad 
dress  from  the  Inhabitants  of  Dalkeith  ;  "  "  Address  from  the 
Committee  of  the  Glasgow  Female  Anti-slavery  Society  ;  " 
"  Address  from  the  Glasgow  University  Abstainers'  Society  ;  " 
"  Address  from  a  Public  Meeting  in  Belfast,  Ireland ;  "  "  Ad 
dress  from  the  Committee  of  the  Ladies'  Anti-slavery  Society, 
Edinburgh ;  "  "  Address  from  the  City  of  Leeds." 

All  these  public  meetings,  addresses,  and  demonstrations  of 
sympathy  were,  in  their  time  and  way,  doubtless  of  perfect  sin 
cerity.  But  when  the  United  States  went  into  a  state  of  civil 
war,  these  demonstrations  ceased. 

But  it  is  due  to  the  brave  true  working-classes  of  England  to 
say  that  in  this  conflict,  whenever  they  thought  the  war  was  one 
of  justice  to  the  slave,  they  gave  it  their  sympathy,  and  even 
when  it  brought  hardship  and  want  to  their  very  doors,  refused 
to  lend  themselves  to  any  popular  movement  which  would  go  to 
crush  the  oppressed  in  America. 

It  is  but  justice  also  to  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland  to  say,  that 
although  by  the  time  our  war  was  initiated  she  had  retired  from 
her  place  as  leader  of  society  to  the  chamber  of  the  invalid,  yet 
her  sympathies  expressed  in  private  letters  ever  remained  true 
to  the  cause  of  freedom. 

Her  son-in-law,  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  stood  almost  alone  in  the 
House  of  Lords  in  defending  the  cause  of  the  Northern  States. 
It  is,  moreover,  a  significant  fart  that  the  Queen  of  England,  in 
concurrence  with  Prince  Albert,  steadily  resisted  every  attempt 
to  enlist  the  warlike  power  of  England  against  the  Northern 
States. 


XXXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

But  Almighty  God  had  decreed  the  liberation  of  the  African 
race,  and  though  Presidents,  Senators,  and  Representatives 
united  in  declaring  that  such  were  not  their  intentions,  yet  by 
great  signs  and  mighty  wonders  was  this  nation  compelled  to 
listen  to  the  voice  that  spoke  from  heaven,  —  "Let  my  peo 
ple  go." 

In  the  darkest  hour  of  the  war,  when  defeat  and  discourage 
ment  had  followed  the  Union  armies,  and  all  hearts  were  trem 
bling  with  fear,  Mrs.  Stowe  was  in  the  Senate-Chamber  at 
Washington,  and  heard  these  words  in  the  Message  of  Presi 
dent  Lincoln :  — 

"  If  this  struggle  is  to  be  prolonged  till  there  be  not  a  house  in  the 
land  where  there  is  not  one  dead,  till  all  the  treasure  amassed  by  the 
unpaid  labor  of  the  slave  shall  be  wasted,  till  every  drop  of  blood 
drawn  by  the  lash  shall  be  atoned  by  blood  drawn  by  the  sword,  — 
we  can  only  bow  and  say,  '  Just  and  true  are  thy  ways,  thou  King  of 
Saints!"' 

Such  words  were  a  fit  exponent  of  the  Emancipation  Procla 
mation,  which,  though  sown  in  weakness,  was  soon  raised  in 
power,  and  received  the  evident  benediction  of  God's  provi 
dence. 

"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  in  the  fervor  which  conceived  it,  in 
the  feeling  which  it  inspired  through  the  world,  was  only  one  of 
a  line  of  ripples  marking  the  commencement  of  mighty  rapids, 
moving  by  forces  which  no  human  power  could  stay  to  an  irre 
sistible  termination,  —  towards  human  freedom. 

Now  the  war  is  over,  slavery  is  a  thing  of  the  past ;  slave- 
pens,  blood-hounds,  slave-whips,  and  slave-coflles  are  only  bad 
dreams  of  the  night ;  and  now  the  humane  reader  can  afford  to 
read  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  without  an  expenditure  of  torture 
and  tears. 

For  many  years  Mrs.  Stowe  has  had  a  home  in  the  Southern 
States,  and  she  has  yet  to  meet  an  intelligent  southern  man  or 
woman  who  does  not  acquiesce  in  the  extinction  of  slavery,  and 
feel  that  the  life  of  free  society  is  as  great  an  advantage  to  the 
whites  as  to  the  blacks.  Slavery  has  no  mourners  ;  there  is 
nobody  who  wishes  it  back. 

As  to  the  influence  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  in  various  other 
lands  of  the  earth  whither  it  has  been  carried,  intelligence  has 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXV11 

sometimes  come  to  the  author  through  the  American  mission 
aries  and  other  sources.  The  three  following  letters  are  speci 
mens. 

In  a  letter  from  Miss  Florence  Nightingale,  October  26, 1856, 
she  says :  — 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  some  pleasure  to  you,  dear  madam,  to  hear  that 
'  Uncle  Tom  '  was  read  by  the  sick  and  suffering  in  our  Eastern  Mili 
tary  Hospitals  with  intense  interest.  The  interest  in  that  book 
raised  many  a  sufferer  who,  while  he  had  not  a  grumble  to  bestow 
upon  his  own  misfortunes,  had  many  a  thought  of  sorrow  and  just 
indignation  for  those  which  you  brought  before  him.  It  is  from  the 
knowledge  of  such  evils  so  brought  home  to  so  many  honest  hearts 
that  they  feel  as  well  as  know  them,  that  we  confidently  look  to  their 
removal  in  God's  good  time." 

From  the  Armenian  Convent  in  the  Lagoon  of  Venice  came  a 
most  beautiful  Armenian  translation  of  "  Uncle  Tom,"  with  a 
letter  from  the  principal  translator. 

Rev.  Mr.  Dwight  thus  wrote  to  Professor  Stowe  from  Con 
stantinople,  September  8,  1855  :  — 

"  *  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin '  in  the  Armenian  language  !  Who  would 
have  thought  it  ?  I  do  not  suppose  your  good  wife,  when  she  wrote 
that  book,  thought  that  she  was  going  to  missionate  it  among  the  sons 
of  Haig  in  all  their  dispersions,  following  them  along  the  banks  of 
the  Euphrates,  sitting  down  with  them  in  their  towns  and  villages 
under  the  shade  of  hoary  Ararat,  travelling  with  them  in  their  wan 
derings  even  to  India  and  China.  But  I  have  it  in  my  hands  !  in  the 
Armenian  of  the  present  day,  the  same  language  in  which  I  speak 
and  think  and  dream.  Now  do  not  suppose  this  is  any  of  my  work, 
or  that  of  any  missionary  in  the  field.  The  translation  has  been  made 
and  book  printed  at  Venice  by  a  fraternity  of  Catholic  Armenian 
Monks  perched  there  on  the  Island  of  St.  Lazarus.  It  is  in  two 
volumes,  neatly  printed  and  with  plates,  I  think  translated  from  the 
French.  It  has  not  been  in  any  respect  materially  altered,  and  when 
it  is  so,  not  on  account  of  religious  sentiment.  The  account  of  the 
negro  prayer  and  exhortation  meetings  is  given  in  full,  though  the 
translator,  not  knowing  what  we  mean  by  people's  becoming  Chris 
tians,  took  pains  to  insert  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  that  at  these 
meetings  of  the  negroes  great  effects  were  sometimes  produced  by 
the  warm-hearted  exhortations  and  prayers,  and  it  often  happened 
that  heathen  negroes  embraced  Christianity  on  the  spot. 

One  of  your  former  scholars  is  now  in  my  house,  studying  Arme 


XXXV111  INTRODUCTION. 

nian,  and  the  book  which  I  advised  him  to  take  as  the  best  for  the 
language  is  this  '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.'  " 

Two  or  three  other  letters  will  conclude  this  repertoire. 

86  SAUCHIEHALL  STREET,  GLASGOW,  April  16,  1853. 
MRS.  H.  B.  STOWE  : 

MADAM,  —  When  persons  of  every  rank  in  this  country  are  almost 
vying  with  each  other  who  is  to  shoAv  you  most  respect,  you  might 
perhaps  think  but  little  at  being  addressed  by  an  exile,  who  offers  you 
his  heartfelt  thanks,  not  for  the  mere  gratification  which  the  reading 
of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  afforded,  but  for  the  services  you  have  ren 
dered  to  the  cause  of  humanity  and  of  my  country.  You  may  be 
surprised  at  hearing  of  services  rendered  to  my  country  (Poland)  ; 
yet  so  it  is.  The  unvarnished  tale  you  published  cannot  fail  to 
awaken  the  nobler  feelings  of  man  in  every  reader  ;  it  instils  into 
their  minds  that  fundamental  Christian  precept  to  love  our  fellow- 
beings  ;  and  it  is  by  the  spread  of  universal  benevolence  and  not  by 
revolutions  that  the  cause  of  humanity  is  best  promoted. 

But  you  have  done  more  than  that,  although  you  may  be  uncon 
scious  of  it.  A  mother  yourself,  you  have  given  comfort  to  other 
mothers.  That  foreign  land  where  such  pure  benevolence  as  is 
taught  in  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  is  honored  cannot  be  a  bad  land  ; 
and  though  letters  from  their  children  do  not  always  reach  Polish 
mothers,  your  book  is  accessible  to  them,  and  gives  them  the  convic 
tion  that  their  offspring,  far  as  they  are  from  them,  are  still  within 
reach  of  maternal  feelings. 

A  still  higher  good  you  have  done  to  many  a  man  by  the  picture  of 
the  patient  faith  of  Uncle  Tom.  It  was  the  custom  of  some  persons 
to  sneer  at  faith,  on  the  supposition  that  it  implied  a  blind  belief  in 
all  that  the  clergyman  utters.  Your  book  has  helped  to  dispel  that 
delusion,  and  faith  begins  to  be  seen  by  some  as  something  nobler,  as 
the  firm  conviction  of  the  mind  that  higher  aims  are  placed  before 
man  than  the  gratification  of  his  appetites  and  desires  ;  that  it  is,  in 
short,  that  strength  of  mind  which  restrains  him  from  doing  evil  when 
his  bad  passions  lead  him  into  temptation. 

I  cannot  address  you  in  the  name  of  a  body,  but  as  an  exile,  as  a 
man  belonging  to  the  family  of  mankind,  I  beg  to  offer  you  my  thanks 
and  my  wishes.  May  God  bless  you,  may  your  days  be  many  and 
prosperous,  and  may  the  noble  aim  you  proposed  yourself  in  writing 
"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  be  speedily  accomplished  !  If  I  may  add  a 
request,  I  would  beg  of  you  to  pray  now  and  then  for  the  poor  Polish 
mothers,  —  a  good  person's  prayer  may  be  acceptable. 
I  am,  madam,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

CHARLES  F.  MULLER. 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXIX 

WAYERLEY  IN  BELMONT,  October  26,  1860. 
MRS.  H.  B.  STOWE  : 

DEAR  MADAM,  —  I  will  not  make  any  apology  for  the  liberty  which 
I  take  of  writing  to  you,  although  I  cannot  claim  any  personal  ac 
quaintance.  At  any  rate,  I  think  you  will  excuse  me.  The  facts 
which  I  wish  to  communicate  will,  I  doubt  not,  be  of  sufficient  interest 
to  justify  me. 

It  was  my  privilege,  for  such  I  shall  esteem  it  on  many  accounts, 
to  receive  into  my  family  and  have  under  my  especial  care  the  3'oung 
Brahmin  whose  recent  visit  to  this  country  you  must  be  acquainted 
with.  I  mean  Joguth  Chunder  Gangooly,  the  first  and  only  indi 
vidual  of  his  caste  who  has  visited  this  country.  Being  highly  intel 
ligent  and  familiar  with  the  social  and  intellectual  character  of  the 
Hindoos  of  his  native  laud,  he  gave  me  much  information  for  which, 
in  my  scanty  knowledge  of  that  country,  I  was  unprepared.  Among 
other  things  he  assured  me  that  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  was  a  book  as 
well  known  and  as  much  read  in  Bengal  among  his  own  people  as 
here  in  America,  that  it  had  been  translated  into  their  language,  and 
been  made  a  household  book.  He  himself  showed  a  familiar  acquain 
tance  with  its  contents,  and  assured  me  that  it  had  done  not  a  little  to 
deepen  the  loathing  of  slavery  in  the  minds  of  the  Hindoos,  and  also 
to  qualify  their  opinion  of  our  country. 

The  facts  which  he  gave  me  I  believe  to  be  substantially  true,  and 
deemed  them  such  as  would  have  an  interest  for  the  author  of  the 
book  in  question.  Though  I  grieve  for  the  wrong  and  shame  which 
disgraces  my  country,  I  take  a  landable  pride  in  those  productions  of 
the  true-hearted  that  appeal  to  the  sympathies  of  all  nations,  and 
find  a  ready  response  in  the  heart  of  humanity. 
With  high  respect, 

Yours  truly, 

JAMES  THURSTON. 

From  MRS.  LEONOWENS,  formerly  English  Governess  in  the  Family  of 
the  King  of  Siam. 

48  INGLIS  STREET,  HALIFAX,  NOVA  SCOTIA, 

October  15,  1878.   ~ 
MRS.  H.  B.  STOWE  : 

DEAR  MADAM,  —  The  following  is  the  fact,  the  result  of  the 
translation  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  into  the  Siamese  language,  by 
my  friend,  Sonn  Klean,  a  lady  of  high  rank  at  the  court  of  Siam. 
I  inclose  it  to  you  here,  as  related  in  one  of  my  books. 

"  Among  the  ladies  of  the  harem  I  knew  one  woman  who  more  than 
all  the  rest  helped  to  enrich  my  life,  and  to  render  fairer  and  more 
beautiful  every  lovely  woman  I  have  since  chanced  to  meet.  Her 


xl  INTRODUCTION. 

name  translated  itself,  and  no  other  name  could  have  been  more 
appropriate,  into  '  Hidden  Perfume.'  Her  dark  eyes  were  clearer 
and  calmer,  her  full  lips  had  a  stronger  expression  of  tenderness 
about  them,  and  her  brow,  which  was  at  times  smooth  and  open,  and 
at  others  contracted  with  pain,  grew  nobler  and  more  beautiful  as 
through  her  studies  in  English  the  purposes  of  her  life  strengthened 
and  grew  deeper  and  broader  each  day.  Our  daily  lessons  and  trans 
lations  from  English  into  Siamese  had  become  a  part  of  her  happiest 
hours.  The  first  book  we  translated  was  *  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin/  and 
it  soon  became  her  favorite  book.  She  would  read  it  over  and  over 
again,  though  she  knew  all  the  characters  by  heart  and  spoke  of  them 
as  if  she  had  known  them  all  her  life.  On  the  3d  of  January,  1867, 
she  voluntarily  liberated  all  her  slaves,  men,  women,  and  children, 
one  hundred  and  thirty  in  all,  saying,  « I  am  wishful  to  be  good  like 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  and  never  again  to  buy  human  bodies,  but 
only  to  let  them  go  free  once  more.'  Thenceforth,  to  express  her 
entire  sympathy  and  affection  for  the  author  of  '"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,' 
she  always  signed  herself  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  ;  and  her  sweet 
voice  trembled  with  love  and  music  whenever  she  spoke  of  the  lovely 
American  lady  who  had  taught  her  as  even  Buddha  had  taught  kings 
to  respect  the  rights  of  her  fellow-creatures." 
I  remain, 

Yours  very  truly, 

A.  H.  LEONOWENS. 

The  distinctively  religious  influence  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  " 
has  been  not  the  least  remarkable  of  the  features  of  its  his 
tory. 

Among  other  testimonials  in  the  possession  of  the  writer  is  a 
Bible  presented  by  an  association  of  workingmen  in  England  on 
the  occasion  of  a  lecture  delivered  to  them  on  "  Uncle  Tom,  as 
an  Illustration  of  Christianity." 

The  Christianity  represented  in  the  book  was  so  far  essential 
and  unsectarian,  that  alike  in  the  Protestant,  Catholic,  and 
Greek  Church  it  has  found  sympathetic  readers. 

It  has  indeed  been  reported  that  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  has 
been  placed  in  the  Index  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  but  of 
this  there  may  be  a  doubt,  as  when  the  author  was  in  Rome  she 
saw  it  in  the  hands  of  the  common  people,  and  no  less  in  those 
of  some  of  the  highest  officials  in  the  Vatican,  and  heard  from 
them  in  conversation  expressions  of  warm  sympathy  with  the 
purport  of  the  work. 


INTRODUCTION.  xli 

In  France  it  was  the  testimony  of  colporteurs  that  the  en 
thusiasm  for  the  work  awakened  a  demand  for  the  Bible  of 
Uncle  Tom,  and  led  to  a  sale  of  the  Scriptures. 

The  accomplished  translator  of  M.  Charpentier's  edition  said 
to  the  author,  that,  by  the  researches  necessary  to  translate  cor 
rectly  the  numerous  citations  of  Scripture  in  the  work,  she  had 
been  led  to  a  most  intimate  knowledge  of  the  sacred  writings  in 
French. 

The  witty  scholar  and  litterateur,  Heinrich  Heine,  speaking  of 
his  return  to  the  Bible  and  its  sources  of  consolation  in  the  last 
years  of  his  life,  uses  this  language  :  — 

"  The  reawakening  of  my  religious  feelings  I  owe  to  that  holy  book 
the  Bible.  Astonishing  !  that  after  I  have  whirled  about  all  my  life 
over  all  the  dance-floors  of  philosophy,  and  yielded  myself  to  all  the 
orgies  of  the  intellect,  and  paid  my  addresses  to  all  possible  systems, 
without  satisfaction,  like  Messalina  after  a  licentious  niglit;  I  now 
find  myself  on  the  same  stand-point  where  poor  Uncle  Tom  stands,  — 
on  that  of  the  Bible.  I  kneel  down  by  my  black  brother  in  the  same 
prayer !  What  a  humiliation  !  With  all  my  science  I  have  come  no 
farther  than  the  poor  ignorant  negro  who  has  scarce  learned  to  spell. 
Poor  Tom,  indeed,  seems  to  have  seen  deeper  things  in  the  holy  book 
than  I.  ...  Tom,  perhaps,  understands  them  better  than  I,  be 
cause  more  flogging  occurs  in  them,  —  that  is  to  say,  those  cease 
less  blows  of  the  whip  which  have  aesthetically  disgusted  me  in  read 
ing  the  Gospels  and  Acts.  But  a  poor  negro  slave  reads  with  his 
back,  and  understands  better  than  we  do.  But  I,  who  used  to  make 
citations  from  Homer,  now  begin  to  quote  the  Bible  as  Uncle  Tom 
does."  —  Vermischte  ScJiriften,  p.  77. 

The  acute  German  in  these  words  has  touched  the  vital  point 
in  the  catholic  religious  spirit  of  the  book.  "  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin  "  shows  that  under  circumstances  of  utter  desolation  and 
despair  the  religion  of  Christ  can  enable  the  poorest  and  most 
ignorant  human  being,  not  merely  to  submit,  but  to  triumph, 
—  that  the  soul  of  the  lowest  and  weakest,  by  its  aid,  can  be 
come  strong  in  superhuman  virtue,  and  rise  above  every  threat 
and  terror  and  danger,  in  a  sublime  assurance  of  an  ever-present 
love  and  an  immortal  life. 

It  is  in  this  point  of  view  that  its  wide  circulation  through  all 
the  languages  of  the  earth  may  justly  be  a  source  of  devout  satis 
faction. 


Xlii  INTRODUCTION. 

Life  has  sorrows  so  hopeless,  so  dreadful,  —  so  many  drag 
through  weary,  joyless  lives,  —  that  a  story  which  carries  such 
,a  message  as  this  can  never  cease  to  be  a  comforter. 

The  message  is  from  Christ  the  Consoler,  and  too  blessed  is 
any  one  allowed  by  Him  to  carry  it  to  the  sorrowful  children  ef 
men. 


UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN; 

OR, 

LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN    WHICH    THE    READER    IS    INTRODUCED    TO    A    MAN    OF    Ht? 

MANITY. 

LATE  in  the  afternoon  of  a  chilly  day  in  February,  two  gen 
tlemen  were  sitting  alone  over  their  wine,  in  a  well-furnished 

dining  parlor,  in  the  town  of  P ,  in  Kentucky.  There  were 

no  servants  present,  and  the  gentlemen,  with  chairs  closely  ap 
proaching,  seemed  to  be  discussing  some  subject  with  great  ear 
nestness. 

For  convenience'  sake,  we  have  said,  hitherto,  two  gentlemen. 
One  of  the  parties,  however,  when  critically  examined,  did  not 
seem,  strictly  speaking,  to  come  under  the  species.  He  was 
a  short  thick-set  man,  with  coarse  commonplace  features,  and 
that  swaggering  air  of  pretension  which  marks  a  low  man  who 
is  trying  to  elbow  his  way  upward  in  the  world.  He  was  much 
overdressed,  in  a  gaudy  vest  of  many  colors,  a  blue  necker 
chief,  bedropped  gayly  with  yellow  spots,  and  arranged  with 
a  flaunting  tie,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  general  air  of  the  man.1 
His  hands,  large  and  coarse,  were  plentifully  bedecked  with 
rings ;  and  he  wore  a  heavy  gold  watch-chain,  with  a  bundle  of 
seals  of  portentous  size,  and  a  great  variety  of  colors,  attached 
to  it,  —  which,  in  the  ardor  of  conversation,  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  flourishing  and  jingling  with  evident  satisfaction.  His  con 
versation  was  in  free  and  easy  defiance  of  Murray's  Grammar, 
"•nd  was  garnished  at  convenient  intervals  with  various  profane 
I 


2  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OB, 

expressions,  which  not  even  the  desire  to  be  graphic  in  our  ac 
count  shall  induce  us  to  transcribe. 

His  companion,  Mr.  Shelby,  had  the  appearance  of  a  gentle 
man  ',  and  the  arrangements  of  the  house,  and  the  general  air 
of  the  housekeeping,  indicated  easy,  and  even  opulent,  circum 
stances.  As  we  before  stated,  the  two  were  in  the  midst  of  an 
earnest  conversation. 

"That  is  the  way  I  should  arrange  the  matter,"  said  Mr. 
Shelby. 

"I  can't  make  trade  that  way,  —  I  positively  can't,  Mr. 
Shelby,"  said  the  other,  holding  up  a  glass  of  wine  between  his 
eye  and  the  light. 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Haley,  Tom  is  an  uncommon  fellow ;  he  is 
certainly  worth  that  sum  anywhere,  —  steady,  honest,  capable, 
manages  my  whole  farm  like  a  clock." 

"  You  mean  honest,  as  niggers  go,"  said  Haley,  helping  him 
self  to  a  glass  of  brandy. 

"  No ;  I  mean,  really,  Tom  is  a  good,  steady,  sensible,  pious 
fellow.  He  got  religion  at  a  camp-meeting,  four  years  ago ; 
and  I  believe  he  really  did  get  it.  I  've  trusted  him,  since  then, 
with  everything  I  have, — money,  house,  horses,  —  and  let  him 
come  and  go  round  the  country ;  and  I  always  found  him  true 
and  square  in  everything." 

"  Some  folks  don't  believe  there  is  pious  niggers,  Shelby," 
said  Haley,  with  a  candid  flourish  of  his  hand,  "  but  /  do.  I 
had  a  fellow,  now,  in  this  yer  last  lot  I  took  to  Orleans,  —  't  was 
as  good  as  a  meetin',  now,  really,  to  hear  that  critter  pray ;  and 
he  was  quite  gentle  and  quiet  like.  He  fetched  me  a  good  sum, 
too,  for  I  bought  him  cheap  of  a  man  that  was  'bliged  to  sell 
out ;  so  I  realized  six  hundred  on  him.  Yes,  I  consider  relig 
ion  a  valeyable  thing  in  a  nigger,  when  it 's  the  genuine  article, 
and  no  mistake." 

"  Well,  Tom  's  got  the  real  article,  if  ever  a  fellow  had,"  re 
joined  the  other.  "  Why,  last  fall,  I  let  him  go  to  Cincinnati 
alone,  to  do  business  for  me,  and  bring  home  five  hundred  dol 
lars.  '  Tom,'  says  I  to  him,  '  I  trust  you,  because  I  think 
you  're  a  Christian,  —  I  know  you  would  n't  cheat.'  Tom  comes 
back,  sure  enough ;  I  knew  he  would.  Some  low  fellows,  they 
say,  said  to  him,  'Tom,  why  don't  you  make  tracks  for  Canada? 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  3 

'  Ah,  master  trusted  me,  and  I  could  n't,'  —  they  told  me  about 
it.  I  am  sorry  to  part  with  Tom,  I  must  say.  You  ought  to 
let  him  cover  the  whole  balance  of  the  debt ;  and  you  would, 
Haley,  if  you  had  any  conscience." 

"  Well,  I  've  got  just  as  much  conscience  as  any  man  in  busi 
ness  can  afford  to  keep,  —  just  a  little,  you  know,  to  swear  by, 
as  't  were,"  said  the  trader,  jocularly ;  "  and,  then,  I  'm  ready 
to  do  anything  in  reason  to  'blige  friends  ;  but  this  yer,  you  see, 
is  a  leetle  too  hard  on  a  fellow,  —  a  leetle  too  hard."  The  trader 
sighed  contemplatively,  and  poured  out  some  more  brandy. 

"  Well  then,  Haley,  how  will  you  trade  ?  "  said  Mr.  Shelby, 
after  an  uneasy  interval  of  silence. 

"  Well,  have  n't  you  a  boy  or  gal  that  you  could  throw  in 
with  Tom?" 

"  Hum!  — none  that  I  could  well  spare  ;  to  tell  the  truth,  it's 
only  hard  necessity  makes  me  willing  to  sell  at  all.  I  don't 
like  parting  with  any  of  my  hands,  that 's  a  fact." 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  a  small  quadroon  boy,  between 
four  and  five  years  of  age,  entered  the  room.  There  was  some 
thing  in  his  appearance  remarkably  beautiful  and  engaging. 
His  black  hair,  fine  as  floss  silk,  hung  in  glossy  curls  about  his 
round  dimpled  face,  while  a  pair  of  large  dark  eyes,  full  of  fire 
and  softness,  looked  out  from  beneath  the  rich,  long  lashes,  as 
he  peered  curiously  into  the  apartment.  A  gay  robe  of  scarlet 
and  yellow  plaid,  carefully  made  and  neatly  fitted,  set  off  to  ad 
vantage  the  dark  arid  rich  style  of  his  beauty ;  and  a  certain 
comic  air  of  assurance,  blended  with  bashfulness,  showed  that 
he  had  been  not  unused  to  being  petted  and  noticed  by  his  mas 
ter. 

"  Hulloa,  Jim  Crow !  "  said  Mr.  Shelby,  whistling,  and  snap 
ping  a  bunch  of  raisins  towards  him,  "  pick  that  up,  now  ! ' 

The  child  scampered,  with  all  his  little  strength,  after  the 
prize,  while  his  master  laughed. 

"Come  here,  Jim  Crow,"  said  he.  The  child  came  up,  and 
the  master  patted  the  curly  head,  and  chucked  him  under  the 
ehin. 

"Now,  Jim,  show  this  gentleman  how  you  can  dance  and 
sing."  The  boy  commenced  one  of  those  wild,  grotesque  songs 
common  among  the  negroes,  in  a  rich,  clear  voice,  accompany- 


4  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR,    - 

ing  his  singing  with  many  evolutions  of  the  hands,  feet,  and 
whole  body,  all  in  perfect  time  to  the  music. 

"  Bravo  1  "  said  Haley,  throwing  him  a  quarter  of  an  orange. 

"Now,  Jim,  walk  like  old  Uncle  Cudjoe  when  he  has  the 
rheumatism,"  said  his  master. 

Instantly  the  flexible  limbs  of  the  child  assumed  the  appear 
ance  of  deformity  and  distortion,  as,  with  his  back  humped  up, 
and  his  master's  stick  in  his  hand,  he  hobbled  about  the  room, 
his  childish  -face  drawn  into  a  doleful  pucker,  and  spitting  from 
right  to  left,  in  imitation  of  an  old  man. 

Both  gentlemen  laughed  uproariously. 

"  Now,  Jim,"  said  his  master,  "  show  us  how  old  Elder  Rob- 
bins  leads  the  psalm."  The  boy  drew  his  chubby  face  down 
to  a  formidable  length,  and  commenced  toning  a  psalm  tune 
through  his  nose  with  imperturbable  gravity. 

"  Hurrah !  bravo !  what  a  young  un  !  "  said  Haley  ;  "  that 
chap  's  a  case,  I  '11  promise.  Tell  you  what,"  said  he,  suddenly 
clapping  his  hand  on  Mr.  Shelby's  shoulder,  "  fling  in  that  chap 
and  I  '11  settle  the  business,  —  I  will.  Come,  now,  if  that  an't 
doing  the  thing  up  about  the  rightest !  " 

At  this  moment,  the  door  was  pushed  gently  open,  and  a 
young  quadroon  woman,  apparently  about  twenty-five,  entered 
the  room. 

There  needed  only  a  glance  from  the  child  to  her,  to  identify 
her  as  its  mother.  There  was  the  same  rich,  full,  dark  eye, 
with  its  long  lashes  ;  the  same  ripples  of  silky  black  hair.  The 
brown  of  her  complexion  gave  way  on  the  cheek  to  a  percep 
tible  flush,  which  deepened  as  she  saw  the  gaze  of  the  strange 
man  fixed  upon  her  in  bold  and  undisguised  admiration.  Her 
dress  was  of  the  neatest  possible  fit,  and  set  off  to  advantage 
her  finely  moulded  shape ;  a  delicately  formed  hand  and  a  trim 
foot  and  ankle  were  items  of  appearance  that  did  not  escape  the 
quick  eye  of  the  trader,  well  used  to  run  up  at  a  glance  the 
points  of  a  fine  female  article. 

"  Well,  Eliza  ?  "  said  her  master,  as  she  stopped  and  looked 
hesitatingly  at  him. 

"  I  was  looking  for  Harry,  please,  sir  ;  "  and  the  boy  bounded 
toward  her,  showing  his  spoils,  which  he  had  gathered  in  the 
skirt  of  his  robe. 


*LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  5 

"Well,  take  him  away,  then,"  said  Mr.  Shelby;  and  hastily 
she  withdrew,  carrying  the  child  on  her  arm. 

"  By  Jupiter,"  said  the  trader,  turning  to  him  in  admiration, 
"  there 's  an  article,  now  !  You  might  make  your  fortune  on  that 
ar  gal  in  Orleans,  any  day.  I  've  seen  over  a  thousand,  in  my 
day,  paid  down  for  gals  not  a  bit  handsomer." 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  my  fortune  on  her,"  said  Mr.  Shelby, 
dryly ;  and,  seeking  to  turn  the  conversation,  he  uncorked  a 
bottle  of  fresh  wine,  and  asked  his  companion's  opinion  of  it. 

"  Capital,  sir,  —  first  chop  !  "  said  the  trader  ;  then  turning, 
and  slapping  his  hand  familiarly  on  Shelby's  shoulder,  he 
added,  — 

"  Come,  how  will  you  trade  about  the  gal  ?  —  what  shall  I 
say  for  her,  —  what  '11  you  take  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Haley,  she  is  not  to  be  sold,"  said  Shelby.  "  My  wife 
would  not  part  with  her  for  her  weight  in  gold." 

"  Ay,  ay  !  women  always  say  such  things,  cause  they  han't 
no  sort  of  calculation.  Just  show  'em  how  many  watches, 
feathers,  and  trinkets  one's  weight  in  gold  would  buy,  and  that 
alters  the  case,  I  reckon." 

"  I  tell  you,  Haley,  this  must  not  be  spoken  of  ;  I  say  no,  and 
I  mean  no,"  said  Shelby,  decidedly, 

"  Well,  you  '11  let  me  have  the  boy,  though,"  said  the  trader ; 
"  you  must  own  I  've  come  down  pretty  handsomely  for  him." 

"  What  on  earth  fan  you  want  with  the  child  ?  "  said 
Shelby. 

"  Why,  I  Ve  got  a  friend  that 's  going  into  this  yer  branch 
of  the  business,  —  wants  to  buy  up  handsome  boys  to  raise  for 
the  market.  Fancy  articles  entirely,  —  sell  for  waiters,  and  so 
on,  to  rich  'uns,  that  can  pay  for  handsome  'uns.  It  sets  off  one 
of  yer  great  places,  —  a  real  handsome  boy  to  open  door,  wait, 
and  tend.  They  fetch  a  good  sum  ;  and  this  little  devil  is  such 
a  comical,  musical  concern,  he 's  just  the  article." 

"  I  would  rather  not  sell  him,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  thought 
fully  ;  "  the  fact  is,  sir,  I  'm  a  humane  man,  and  I  hate  to  take 
the  boy  from  his  mother,  sir." 

"  Oh,  you  do  ?  —  La  !  yes,  —  something  of  that  ar  natur.  I 
understand,  perfectly.  It  is  mighty  onpleasant  getting  on  with 
women,  sometimes.  I  al'ays  hates  these  yer  screechin',  scream- 


6  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

in'  times.  They  are  mighty  onpleasant ;  but,  as  I  manages 
business,  I  generally  avoids  'em,  sir.  Now,  what  if  you  get  the 
girl  off  for  a  day,  or  a  week,  or  so  ;  then  the  thing 's  done 
quietly,  —  all  over  before  she  comes  home.  Your  wife  might 
get  her  some  ear-rings,  or  a  new  gown,  or  some  such  truck,  to 
make  up  with  her." 

"  I  'm  afraid  not." 

"  Lor  bless  ye,  yes  !  These  critters  an't  like  white  folks,  you 
know ;  they  gets  over  things,  only  manage  right.  Now,  they 
say,"  said  Haley,  assuming  a  candid  and  confidential  air,  "  that 
this  kind  o'  trade  is  hardening  to  the  feelings  ;  but  I  never 
found  it  so.  Fact  is,  I  never  could  do  things  up  the  way  some 
fellers  manage  the  business.  ,/!  've  seen  'em  as  would  pull  a 
woman's  child  out  of  her  arms,  and  set  him  up  to  sell,  and  she 
screechin'  like  mad  all  the  time  ;  —  very  bad  policy,  —  damages 
the  article,  —  makes  'em  quite  unfit  for  service  sometimes.  I 
knew  a  real  handsome  gal  once,  in  Orleans,  as  was  entirely 
ruined  by  this  sort  o'  handling.  The  fellow  that  was  trading 
for  her  did  n't  want  her  baby ;  and  she  was  one  of  your  real 
high  sort,  when  her  blood  was  up.  I  tell  you,  she  squeezed  up 
her  child  in  her  arms,  and  talked,  and  went  on  real  awful.  It 
kinder  makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  think  on  't ;  and  when  they 
carried  off  the  child,  and  locked  her  up,  she  jest  went  ravin' 
mad,  and  died  in  a  week.  Clear  waste,  sir,  of  a  thousand  dol 
lars,  jest  for  want  of  management,  —  there  's  where  't  is.  It 's 
always  best  to  do  the  humane  thing,  sir  ;  that 's  been  my  ex 
perience.'"  And  the  trader  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  folded 
his  arms,  with  an  air  of  virtuous  decision,  apparently  considering 
himself  a  second  Wilberforce. 

The  subject  appeared  to  interest  the  gentleman  deeply ;  for 
while  Mr.  Shelby  was  thoughtfully  peeling  an  orange,  Haley 
broke  out  afresh,  with  becoming  diffidence,  but  as  if  actually 
driven  by  the  force  of  truth  to  say  a  few  words  more. 

"  It  don't  look  well,  now,  for  a  feller  to  be  praisin'  himself  ; 
but  I  say  it  jest  because  it 's  the  truth.  I  believe  I  'm  reck 
oned  to  bring  in  about  the  finest  droves  of  niggers  that  is 
brougkt  in,  —  at  least,  I  Ve  been  told  so  ;  if  I  have  once,  I 
reckon  I  have  a  hundred  times,  all  in  good  case,  —  fat  and 
likely,  and  I  lose  as  few  as  any  man  in  the  business.  And  I 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  7 

lays  it  all  to  my  management,  sir ;  and  humanity,  sir,  I  may 
say,  is  the  great  pillar  of  my  management." 

Mr.  Shelby  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  so  he  said,  "  In 
deed  !  " 

"  Now,  I  Ve  been  laughed  at  for  my  notions,  sir,  and  I  've 
been  talked  to.  They  an't  pop'lar,  and  they  an't  common  ;  but 
I  stuck  to  'em,  sir ;  I  've  stuck  to  'em,  and  realized  well  on 
'em ;  yes,  sir,  they  have  paid  their  passage,  I  may  say,"  and  the 
trader  laughed  at  his  joke. 

There  was  something  so  piquant  and  original  in  these  elucida 
tions  of  humanity,  that  Mr.  Shelby  could  not  help  laughing  in 
company.  Perhaps  you  laugh  too,  dear  reader ;  but  you  know 
humanity  comes  out  in  a  variety  of  strange  forms  nowadays,  and 
there  is  no  end  to  the  odd  things  that  humane  people  will  say 
and  do. 

Mr.  Shelby's  laugh  encouraged  the  trader  to  proceed. 

"  It 's  strange  now,  but  I  never  could  beat  this  into  people's 
heads.  Now,  there  was  Tom  Loker,  my  old  partner,  down  in 
Natchez  ;  he  was  a  clever  fellow,  Tom  was,  only  the  very  devil 
with  niggers,  —  on  principle  't  was,  you  see,  for  a  better-hearted 
feller  never  broke  bread  ;  't  was  his  system,  sir.  I  used  to  talk 
to  Tom.  '  Why,  Tom,'  I  used  to  say,  '  when  your  gals  takes  on 
and  cry,  what 's  the  use  o'  crackin'  on  'em  over  the  head,  and 
knockin'  on  'em  round?  It's  ridiculous,'  says  I,  'and  don't 
do  no  sort  o'  good.  Why,  I  don't  see  no  harm  in  their  cryin',' 
says  I ;  *  it 's  natur,'  says  I,  i  and  if  natur  can't  blow  off  one 
way,  it  will  another.  Besides  Tom,'  says  I,  '  it  jest  spiles  your 
gals  ;  they  get  sickly  and  down  in  the  mouth ;  and  sometimes 
they  gets  ugly,  —  particular  yallow  gals  do,  —  and  it 's  the 
devil  and  all  gettin'  on  'em  broke  in.  Now,'  says  I,  '  why  can't 
you  kinder  coax  'em  up.  and  speak  'em  fair  ?  Depend  on  it, 
Tom,  a  little  humanity,  thrown  in  along,  goes  a  heap  further 
than  all  your  jawin'  and  crackin' ;  and  it  pays  better,*  says 
I,  '  depend  on  't.'  But  Tom  could  n't  get  the  hang  on  't ;  and 
he  spiled  so  many  for  me,  that  I  had  to  break  off  with  him, 
though  he  was  a  good-hearted  fellow,  and  as  fair  a  business  hand 
as  is  goin'." 

"  And  do  you  find  your  ways  of  managing  do  the  business 
better  than  Tom's  ?  "  said  Mr.  Shelby. 


8  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,  I  may  say  so.  You  see,  when  I  any  ways 
can,  I  takes  a  leetle  care  about  the  onpleasant  parts,  like  selling 
young  uns  and  that,  —  get  the  gals  out  of  the  way,  —  out  of 
sight,  out  of  mind,  you  know,  —  and  when  it 's  clean  done,  and 
can't  be  helped,  they  naturally  gets  used  to  it.  'Tan't,  you 
know,  as  if  it  was  white  folks,  that 's  brought  up  in  the  way  of 
'spectin'  to  keep  their  children  and  wives,  and  all  that.  Niggers, 
you  know,  that 's  fetched  up  properly  han't  no  kind  of  'specta- 
tions  of  no  kind ;  so  all  these  things  comes  easier." 

"  I  'm  afraid  mine  are  not  properly  brought  up,  then,"  said 
Mr.  Shelby. 

"  S'pose  not ;  you  Kentucky  folks  spile  your  niggers.  You 
mean  well  by  'em,  but  'tan't  no  real  kindness,  arter  all.  Now, 
a  nigger,  you  see,  what 's  got  to  be  hacked  and  tumbled  round 
the  world,  and  sold  to  Tom,  and  Dick,  and  the  Lord  knows  who, 
'tan't  no  kindness  to  be  givin'  on  him  notions  and  expectations, 
and  bringin'  on  him  up  too  well,  for  the  rough  and  tumble  comes 
all  the  harder  on  him  arter.  Now,  I  venture  to  say,  your  nig 
gers  would  be  quite  chop-fallen  in  a  place  where  some  of  youi 
plantation  niggers  would  be  singing  and  whooping  like  all  pos 
sessed.  Every  man,  you  know,  Mr.  Shelby,  naturally  thinks 
well  of  his  own  ways  ;  and  I  think  I  treat  niggers  just  about  as 
well  as  it 's  ever  worth  while  to  treat  'em." 

"  It 's  a  happy  thing  to  be  satisfied,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  with 
a  slight  shrug,  and  some  perceptible  feelings  of  a  disagreeable 
nature. 

"  Well,"  said  Haley,  after  they  had  both  silently  picked  their 
nuts  for  a  season,  "  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

•"  I  '11  think  the  matter  over,  and  talk  with  my  wife,"  said 
Mr.  Shelby.  "  Meantime,  Haley,  if  you  want  the  matter  carried 
on  in  the  quiet  way  you  speak  of,  you  'd  best  not  let  your  busi 
ness  in  this  neighborhood  be  known.  It  will  get  out  among 
my  boys,  and  it  will  not  be  a  particularly  quiet  business  get 
ting  away  any  of  my  fellows,  if  they  know  it,  I  '11  promise 
you." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  by  all  means,  mum !  of  course.  But  I  '11  tell 
you,  I  'in  in  a  devil  of  a  hurry,  and  shall  want  to  know,  as  sooii 
as  possible,  what  I  may  depend  on,"  said  he,  rising  and  putting 
en  his  overcoat. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  9 

•'  Well,  call  up  this  evening,  between  six  and  seven,  and  you 
shall  have  my  answer,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  and  the  trader  bowed 
himself  out  of  the  apartment. 

"I  'd  like  to  have  been  able  to  kick  the  fellow  down  the 
steps,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  saw  the  door  fairly  closed, 
"  with  his  impudent  assurance  ;  but  he  knows  how  much  he  has 
me  at  advantage.  If  anybody  had  ever  said  to  me  that  I  should 
sell  Tom  down  south  to  one  of  those  rascally  traders,  I  should 
have  said,  *  Is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do  this  thing  ?  ' 
And  now  it  must  come,  for  aught  I  see.  And  Eliza's  child, 
too  !  I  know  that  I  shall  have  some  fuss  with  wife  about  that ; 
and,  for  that  matter,  about  Tom,  too.  So  much  for  being  in 
debt,  —  heigh-ho  !  The  fellow  sees  his  advantage,  and  means 
to  push  it." 

Perhaps  the  mildest  form  of  the  system  of  slavery  is  to  be 
seen  in  the  State  of  Kentucky.  The  general  prevalence  of 
agricultural  pursuits  of  a  quiet  and  gradual  nature,  not  requir 
ing  those  periodic  seasons  of  hurry  and  pressure  that  are  called 
for  in  the  business  of  more  southern  districts,  makes  the  task 
of  the  negro  a  more  healthful  and  reasonable  one  ;  while  the 
master,  content  with  a  more  gradual  style  of  acquisition,  has 
not  those  temptations  to  hard-heartedness  which  always  over 
come  frail  human  nature  when  the  prospect  of  sudden  and  rapid 
gain  is  weighed  in  the  balance,  with  no  heavier  counterpoise 
than  the  interests  of  the  helpless  and  unprotected. 

Whoever  visits  some  estates  there,  and  witnesses  the  good- 
humored  indulgence  of  some  masters  and  mistresses,  and  the 
affectionate  loyalty  of  some  slaves,  might  be  tempted  to  dream 
the  oft-fabled  poetic  legend  of  a  patriarchal  institution,  and  all 
that ;  but  over  and  above  the  scene  there  broods  a  portentous 
shadow,  —  the  shadow  of  law.  So  long  as  the  law  considers  all 
these  human  beings,  with  beating  hearts  and  living  affections, 
only  as  so  many  things  belonging  to  a  master,  —  so  long  as  the 
failure,  or  misfortune,  or  imprudence,  or  death  of  the  kindest 
owner  may  cause  them  any  day  to  exchange  a  life  of  kind  pro 
tection  and  indulgence  for  one  of  hopeless  misery  and  toil,  —  so 
long  it  is  impossible  to  make  anything  beautiful  or  desirable  in 
the  best-regulated  administration  of  slavery. 

Mr.  Shelby  was  a  fair  average  kind  of  man,  good  natured  and 


10  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

Aindly,  and  disposed  to  easy  indulgence  of  those  around  him, 
and  there  had  never  been  a  lack  of  anything  which  might  con 
tribute  to  the  physical  comfort  of  the  negroes  on  his  estate.  He 
had,  however,  speculated  largely  and  quite  loosely  ;  had  involved 
himself  deeply,  and  his  notes  to  a  large  amount  had  come  into 
the  hands  of  Haley ;  and  this  small  piece  of  information  is  the 
key  to  the  preceding  conversation. 

Now,  it  had  so  happened  that,  in  approaching  the  door,  Eliza 
had  caught  enough  of  the  conversation  to  know  that  a  trader 
was  making  offers  to  her  master  for  somebody. 

She  would  gladly  have  stopped  at  the  door  to  listen,  as  she 
came  out ;  but  her  mistress  just  then  calling,  she  was  obliged  to 
hasten  away. 

Still  she  thought  she  heard  the  trader  make  an  offer  for 
her  boy ;  —  could  she  be  mistaken  ?  Her  heart  swelled  and 
throbbed,  and  she  involuntarily  strained  him  so  tight  that  the 
little  fellow  looked  up  into  her  face  in  astonishment. 

"  Eliza,  girl,  what  ails  you  to-day  ?  "  said  her  mistress,  when 
Eliza  had  upset  the  wash-pitcher,  knocked  down  the  work-stand, 
and  finally  was  abstractedly  offering  her  mistress  a  long  night 
gown  in  place  of  the  silk  dress  she  had  ordered  her  to  bring 
from  the  wardrobe. 

Eliza  started.  ''  Oh,  missis !  "  she  said,  raising  her  eyes ; 
then,  bursting  into  tears,  she  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and  began 
sobbing. 

"  Why,  Eliza,  child  !  what  ails  you  ?  "  said  her  mistress. 

"  Oh,  missis,"  said  Eliza,  "  there  's  been  a  trader  talking  with 
master  in  the  parlor  !  I  heard  him." 

"  Well,  silly  child,  suppose  there  has." 

"  Oh,  missis,  do  you  suppose  mas'r  would  sell  my  Harry  ?  " 
And  the  poor  creature  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  sobbed 
convulsively. 

"  Sell  him !  No,  you  foolish  girl !  You  know  your  master 
never  deals  with  those  southern  traders,  and  never  means  to  sell 
any  of  his  servants,  as  long  as  they  behave  well.  Why,  you 
silly  child,  who  do  you  think  would  want  to  buy  your  Harry  ? 
Do  you  think  all  the  world  are  set  on  him  as  you  are,  you  goosie  ? 
Come,  cheer  up,  and  hook  my  dress.  There  now,  put  my  back 
hair  up  in  that  pretty  braid  you  learnt  the  other  day,  and  don'i 
go  listening  at  doors  any  more." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  11 

"  Well,  but,  missis,  you  never  would  give  your  consent  — 
to  — to"  — 

"  Nonsense,  child  !  to  be  sure  I  should  n't.  What  do  you 
talk  sc  for  ?  I  would  as  soon  have  one  of  my  own  children  sold. 
But  really,  Eliza,  you  are  getting  altogether  too  proud  of  that 
little  fellow.  A  man  can't  put  his  nose  into  the  door,  but  you 
think  he  must  be  coming  to  buy  him." 

Reassured  by  her  mistress's  confident  tone,  Eliza  proceeded 
nimbly  and  adroitly  with  her  toilet,  laughing  at  her  own  fears, 
as  she  proceeded. 

Mrs.  Shelby  was  a  woman  of  a  high  class,  both  intellectually 
and  morally.  To  that  natural  magnanimity  and  generosity  of 
mind  which  one  often  marks  as  characteristic  of  the  women  of 
Kentucky,  she  added  high  moral  and  religious  sensibility  and 
principle,  carried  out  with  great  energy  and  ability  into  practical 
results.  Her  husband,  who  made  no  professions  to  any  partic 
ular  religious  character,  nevertheless  reverenced  and  respected 
the  consistency  of  hers,  and  stood,  perhaps,  a  little  in  awe  of 
her  opinion.  Certain  it  was  that  he  gave  her  unlimited  scope 
in  all  her  benevolent  efforts  for  the  comfort,  instruction,  and 
improvement  of  her  servants,  though  he  never  took  any  de 
cided  part  in  them  himself.  In  fact,  if  not  exactly  a  believer 
in  the  doctrine  of  the  efficiency  of  the  extra  good  works  of 
saints,  he  really  seemed  somehow  or  other  to  fancy  that  his 
wife  had  piety  and  benevolence  enough  for  two,  —  to  indulge 
a  shadowy  expectation  of  getting  into  heaven  through  her  su 
perabundance  of  qualities  to  which  he  made  no  particular  pre 
tension. 

The  heaviest  load  on  his  mind,  after  his  conversation  with 
the  trader,  lay  in  the  foreseen  necessity  of  breaking  to  his  wife 
the  arrangement  contemplated,  —  meeting  the  importunities 
and  opposition  which  he  knew  he  should  have  reason  to  en 
counter. 

Mrs.  Shelby,  being  entirely  ignorant  of  her  husband's  em 
barrassments,  and  knowing  only  the  general  kindliness  of  his 
temper,  had  been  quite  sincere  in  the  entire  incredulity  with 
which  she  had  met  Eliza's  suspicions.  In  fact,  she  dismissed 
the  matter  from  her  mind,  without  a  second  thought ;  and  being 
occupied  in  preparations  for  an  evening  visit,  it  passed  out  of  her 
thoughts  entirely. 


12  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;  OR, 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    MOTHER. 

ELIZA  had  been  brought  up  by  her  mistress,  from  girlhood, 
as  a  petted  and  indulged  favorite. 

The  traveller  in  the  south  must  often  have  remarked  that 
peculiar  air  of  refinement,  that  softness  of  voice  and  manner, 
which  seems  in  many  cases  to  be  a  particular  gift  to  the  quad 
roon  and  mulatto  women.  These  natural  graces  in  the  quad 
roon  are  often  united  with  beauty  of  the  most  dazzling  kind,  and 
in  almost  every  case  with  a  personal  appearance  prepossessing 
and  agreeable.  Eliza,  such  as  we  have  described  her,  is  not  a 
fancy  sketch,  but  taken  from  remembrance,  as  we  saw  her,  years 
ago,  in  Kentucky.  Safe  under  tbe  protecting  care  of  her  mis 
tress,  Eliza  had  reached  maturity  without  those  temptations 
which  make  beauty  so  fatal  an  inheritance  to  a  slave.  She  had 
been  married  to  a  bright  and  talented  young  mulatto  man,  who 
was  a  slave  on  a  neighboring  estate,  and  bore  the  name  of 
George  Harris. 

This  young  man  had  been  hired  out  by  his  master  to  work  in 
a  bagging  factory,  where  his  adroitness  and  ingenuity  caused 
him  to  be  considered  the  first  hand  in  the  place.  He  had  in 
vented  a  machine  for  the  cleaning  of  the  hemp,  which,  consider 
ing  the  education  and  circumstances  of  the  inventor,  displayed 
quite  as  much  mechanical  genius  as  Whitney's  cotton-gin.1 

He  was  possessed  of  a  handsome  person  and  pleasing  manners, 
and  was  a  general  favorite  in  the  factory.  Nevertheless,  as  this 
young  man  was  in  the  eye  of  the  law  not  a  man,  but  a  tiling,  all 
these  superior  qualifications  were  subject  to  the  control  of  a  vul 
gar,  narrow-minded,  tyrannical  master.  This  same  gentleman, 
having  heard  of  the  fame  of  George's  invention,  took  a  ride  over 

1  A  machine  of  this  description  was  really  the  invention  of  a  young  colored 
man  in  Kentucky. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  13 

to  the  factory,  to  see  what  this  intelligent  chattel  had  been  about. 
He  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm  by  the  employer,  who 
congratulated  him  on  possessing  so  valuable  a  slave. 

He  was  waited  upon  over  the  factory,  shown  the  machinery 
by  George,  who,  in  high  spirits,  talked  so  fluently,  held  himself 
so  erect,  looked  so  handsome  and  manly,  that  his  master  began 
to  feel  an  uneasy  consciousness^of  inferioiity.  What  business 
had  his  slave  to~be  marcTimg~roiind  the  country,  inventing  ma 
chines,  and  holding  up  his  head  among  gentlemen  ?  He  'd  soon 
put  a  stop  to  it.  He  'd  take  him  back,  and  put  him  to  hoeing 
and  digging,  and  "  see  if  he  'd  step  about  so  smart."  Accord 
ingly,  the  manufacturer  and  all  hands  concerned  were  astounded 
when  he  suddenly  demanded  George's  wages,  and  announced 
his  intention  of  taking  him  home. 

"But,  Mr.  Harris,"  remonstrated  the  manufacturer,  "isn't 
this  rather  sudden  ?  " 

"  What  if  it  is  ?  —  is  n't  the  man  mine  ?  " 

"  We  would  be  willing,  sir,  to  increase  the  rate  of  compensa 
tion." 

"  No  object  at  all,  sir.  I  don't  need  to  hire  any  of  my  hands 
out,  unless  I  've  a  mind  to." 

"  But,  sir,  he  seems  peculiarly  adapted  to  this  business." 

"  Dare  say  he  may  be ;  never  was  much  adapted  to  anything 
that  I  set  him  about,  I  11  be  bound." 

"But  only  think  of  his  inventing  this  machine,"  interposed 
one  of  the  workmen,  rather  unluckily. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  —  a  machine  for  saving  work,  is-it  ?  He  'd  invent 
that,  I  '11  be  bound ;  let  a  nigger  alone  for  that,  any  time.  They 
are  all  labor-saving  machines  themselves,  every  one  of  'em.  No, 
he  shall  tramp !  " 

George  had  stood  like  one  transfixed,  at  hearing  his  doom 
thus  suddenly  pronounced  by  a  power  that  he  knew  was  irre 
sistible.  He  folded  his  arms,  tightly  pressed  in  his  lips,  but  a 
whole  volcano  of  bitter  feelings  burned  in  his  bosom,  and  sent 
streams  of  fire  through  his  veins.  He  breathed  short,  and  his 
large  dark  eyes  flashed  like  live  coals;  and  he  might  have  broken 
out  into  some  dangerous  ebullition,  had  not  the  kindly  manu 
facturer  touched  him  on  the  arm,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone,  — 

"  Give  way,  George ;  go  with  him  for  the  present.  We  '11  trv 
to  help  you,  yet." 


14  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

The  tyrant  observed  the  whisper,  and  conjectured  its  import, 
though  he  could  not  hear  what  was  said  ;  and  he  inwardly 
strengthened  himself  in  his  determination  to  keep  the  power  lie 
possessed  over  his  victim. 

George  was  taken  home,  and  put  to  the  meanest  drudgery  of 
the  farm.  He  had  been  able  to  repress  every  disrespectful 
word  ;  but  the  flashing  eye,  the  gloomy  and  troubled  brow,  were 
part  of  a  natural  language  that  could  not  be  repressed,  —  indu 
bitable  signs,  which  showed  too  plainly  that  the  man  could  not 
become  a  thing. 

It  was  during  the  happy  period  of  his  employment  in  the 
factory  that  George  had  seen  and  married  his  wife.  During 
that  period,  —  being  much  trusted  and  favored  by  his  employer, 
—  he  had  free  liberty  to  come  and  go  at  discretion.  The  mar 
riage  was  highly  approved  of  by  Mrs.  Shelby,  who,  with  a  little 
womanly  complacency  in  match-making,  felt  pleased  to  unite 
her  handsome  favorite  with  one  of  her  own  class  who  seemed  in 
every  way  suited  to  her ;  and  so  they  were  married  in  her  mis 
tress's  great  parlor,  and  her  mistress  herself  adorned  the  bride's 
beautiful  hair  with  orange-blossoms,  and  threw  over  it  the  bridal 
veil,  which  certainly  could  scarce  have  rested  on  a  fairer  head ; 
and  there  was  no  lack  of  white  gloves,  and  cake  and  wine,  — 
of  admiring  guests  to  praise  the  bride's  beauty,  and  her  mistress's 
indulgence  and  liberality.  For  a  year  or  two  Eliza  saw  her 
husband  frequently,  and  there  was  nothing  to  interrupt  their 
happiness,  except  the  loss  of  two  infant  children,  to  whom  she 
was  passionately  attached,  and  whom  she  mourned  with  a  grief 
so  intense  as  to  call  for  gentle  remonstrance  from  her  mistress, 
who  sought  with  maternal  anxiety,  to  direct  her  naturally  pas 
sionate  feelings  within  the  bounds  of  reason  and  religion.  * 

After  the  birth  of  little  Harry,  however,  she  had  gradually 
become  tranquillized  and  settled;  and  every  bleeding  tie  and 
throbbing  nerve,  once  more  entwined  with  that  little  life, 
seemed  to  become  sound  and  healthful,  and  Eliza  was  a  happy 
woman  up  to  the  time  that  her  husband  was  rudely  torn  from 
his  kind  employer,  and  brought  under  the  iron  sway  of  his  legal 
owner. 

The  manufacturer,  true  to  his  word,  visited  Mr.  Harris  a 
week  or  two  after  George  had  been  taken  away,  when,  as  he 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  15 

hoped,  the  heat  of  the  occasion  had  passed  away,  and  tried 
every  possible  inducement  to  lead  him  to  restore  him  to  his 
former  employment. 

"  You  need  n't  trouble  yourself  to  talk  any  longer/  said  he, 
doggedly ;  "  I  know  my  own  business,  sir." 

"  I  did  not  presume  to  interfere  with  it,  sir.  I  only  thought 
that  you  might  think  it  for  your  interest  to  let  your  man  to  us 
on  the  terms  proposed." 

"  Oh,  I  understand  the  matter  well  enough.  I  saw  your  wink 
ing  and  whispering,  the  day  I  took  him  out  of  the  factory ;  but 
you  don't  come  it  over  me  that  way.  It 's  a  free  country,  sir ; 
the  man  's  mine,  and  I  do  what  I  please  with  him,  —  that 's 
it!" 

And  so  fell  George's  last  hope ;  —  nothing  before  him  but  a 
life  of  toil  and  drudgery,  rendered  more  bitter  by  every  little 
smarting  vexation  and  indignity  which  tyrannical  ingenuity 
could  devise. 

A  very  humane  jurist  once  said,  The  worst  use  you  can  put 
a  man  to  is  to  hang  him.  No ;  there  is  another  use  that  a  man 
can  be  put  to  that  is  WORSE  ! 


16  UNCLE   TOM'S   CALLN;   OK, 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    HUSBAND    AND    FATHER. 

MRS.  SHELBY  had  gone  on  her  visit,  and  Eliza  stood  in  the 
veranda,  rather  dejectedly  looking  after  the  retreating  carriage, 
when  a  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder.  She  turned,  and  a 
bright  smile  lighted  up  her  fine  eyes. 

"  George,  is  it  you  ?  How  you  frightened  me  !  Well !  I  am 
so  glad  you  's  come  !  Missis  is  gone  to  spend  the  afternoon  ;  so 
come  into  my  little  room,  and  we  '11  have  the  time  all  to  our 
selves." 

Saying  this,  she  drew  him  into  a  neat  little  apartment  open 
ing  on  the  veranda,  where  she  generally  sat  at  her  sewing, 
within  call  of  her  mistress. 

"  How  glad  I  am  !  —  why  don't  you  smile  ?  —  and  look  at 
Harry,  —  how  he  grows."  The  boy  stood  shyly  regarding  his 
father  through  his  curls,  holding  close  to  the  skirts  of  his  moth 
er's  dress.  "  Is  n't  he  beautiful  ?  "  said  Eliza,  lifting  his  long 
curls  and  kissing  him. 

"  I  wish  he  'd  never  been  born  !  "  said  George,  bitterly.  "  I 
wish  I  'd  never  been  born  myself !  " 

Surprised  and  frightened,  Eliza  sat  down,  leaned  her  head  on 
her  husband's  shoulder,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  There  now,  Eliza,  it 's  too  bad  for  me  to  make  you  feel  so, 
poor  girl !  "  said  he,  fondly  ;  "  it 's  too  bad.  Oh,  how  I  wisb 
you  never  had  seen  me,  —  you  might  have  been  happy !  " 

"  George !  George  !  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  What  dreadful 
thing  has  happened,  or  is  going  to  happen  ?  I  'm  sure  we  've 
been  very  happy,  till  lately." 

"  So  we  have,  dear,"  said  George.  Then  drawing  his  child 
on  his  knee,  he  gazed  intently  on  his  glorious  dark  eyes,  and 
passed  his  hands  through  his  long  curls. 

'*  Just  like  you,  Eliza ;  and  you  are  the  handsomest  woman  I 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  17 

ever  saw,  and  the  best  one  I  ever  wish  to  see ;  but,  oh,  I  wisl 
I  'd  never  seen  you,  nor  you  me  !  " 

"  Oh,  George,  how  can  you  !  " 

"  Yes,  Eliza,  it 's  all  misery,  misery,  misery  !  My  life  is 
bitter  as  wormwood  ;  the  very  life  is  burning  out  of  me.  I  'm  a 
poor,  miserable,  forlorn  drudge ;  I  shall  only  drag  you  down 
with  me,  that 's  all.  What 's  the  use  of  our  trying  to  do  any= 
tiling,  trying  to  know  anything,  trying  to  be  anything  ?  What 's 
the  use  of  lining?  I  wish  I  was  dead  !  " 

"  Oh,  now,  dear  George,  that  is  really  wicked  !  I  know  how 
you  feel  about  losing  your  place  in  the  factory,  and  you  Lave  a 
hard  master  ;  but  pray  be  patient,  and  perhaps  something  "  — 

"  Patient !  "  said  he,  interrupting  her  ;  "  have  n't  I  been  pa 
tient  ?  Did  I  say  a  word  when  he  came  and  took  me  away,  for 
no  earthly  reason,  from  the  place  where  everybody  was  kind  to 
me  ?  I  'd  paid  him  truly  every  cent  of  my  earnings,  —  and  they 
all  say  I  worked  well." 

"  Well,  it  is  dreadful,"  said  Eliza  ;  "  but,  after  all,  he  is  your 
master,  you  know." 

/^=^*'  My  master  !  and  who  made  him  my  master  ?  That 's  what 
I  I  think  of,  —  what  right  has  he  to  me  ?  I  'rn  a  man  as  much 
as  he  is.  I  'm  a  better  man  than  he  is.  I  know  more  about 
business  than  he  does  ;  I  am  a  better  managei  than  he  is ;  I 
can  read  better  than  he  can  ;  I  can  write  a  better  hand,  —  and 
I  've  learned  it  all  myself,  and  no  thanks  to  him,  —  I  Ve  learned 
it  in  spite  of  him  ;  and  now  what  right  has  he  to  make  a  dray- 
horse  of  me  ?  —  to  take  me  from  things  I  can  do,  and  do  better 
than  he  can,  and  put  me  to  work  that  any  horse  can  do  ?  He 
tries  to  do  it ;  he  says  he  '11  bring  me  down  and  humble  me,  and 
he  puts  me  to  just  the  hardest,  meanest,  and  dirtiest  work,  on 
purpose !  " 

"  Oh,  George  !  George  !  you  frighten  me !  Why,  I  never  heard 
you  talk  so ;  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  do  something  dreadful.  I  don't 
wonder  at  your  feelings  at  all ;  but  oh,  do  be  careful  —  do,  do 
—  for  my  sake,  —  for  Harry's  !  " 

"  I  have  been  careful,   and  I  have   been   patient,  but  it  's 

growing  worse  and  worse ;  flesh  and  blood   can't  bear  it  any 

longer ;  —  every  chance  he  can  get  to  insult  and  torment  me, 

lie  takes.     I  thought  I  could  do  my  work  well,  and  keep  on 

2 


18  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

quiet,  and  have  some  time  to  read  and  learn  out  of  work  hours ; 
but  the  more  he  sees  I  can  do,  the  more  he  loads  on.  He  says 
that  though  I  don't  say  anything,  he  sees  I  've  got  the  devil  in 
me,  and  he  means  to  bring  it  out ;  and  one  of  these  jdays  it  will 
come  out  in  a  way  that  he  won't  like,  or  I  'm  mistaken  !  " 

"  Oh,  dear !  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  said  Eliza,  mournfully. 
/^Jtjfcas  only  yesterday,"  said  George,  "  as  I  was  busy  load 
ing  stones  into  a  cart,  that  young  Mas'r  Tom  stood  there,  slash 
ing  his  whip  so  near  the  horse  that  the  creature  was  frightened. 
I  asked  him  to  stop,  as  pleasant  as  I  could,  —  he  just  kept  right 
on.  I  begged  him  again,  and  then  he  turned  on  me,  and  began 
striking  me.  I  held  his  hand,  and  then  he  screamed  and  kicked 
and  ran  to  his  father,  and  told  him  that  I  was  fighting  him.  He 
came  in  a  rage,  and  said  he  'd  teach  me  who  was  my  master ; 
and  he  tied  me  to  a  tree,  and  cut  switches  for  young  master, 
and  told  him  that  he  might  whip  me  till  he  was  tired  ;  —  and 
he  did  do  it  !  If  I  don't  make  him  remember  it,  some  time !  " 
and  the  brow  of  the  young  man  grew  dark,  and  his  eyes  burned 
with  an  expression  that  made  his  young  wife  tremble.  "  Who 
made  this  man  my  master  ?  That 's  what  I  want  to  know  !  " 
he  said. 

"Well,"  said  Eliza  mournfully,  "I  always  thought  that  I 
must  obey  my  master  and  mistress,  or  I  could  n't  be  a  Chris 
tian." 

"  There  is  some  sense  in  it,  in  your  case ;  they  have  brought 
you  up  like  a  child,  fed  you,  clothed  you,  indulged  you,  and 
taught  you,  so  that  you  have  a  good  education  ;  that  is  some 
reason  why  they  should  claim  you.  But  I  have  been  kicked 
and  cuffed  and  sworn  at,  and  at  the  best  only  let  alone  ;  and 
what  do  I  owe  ?  I  've  paid  for  all  my  keeping  a  hundred  times 
over.  I  won't  bear  it.  No,  I  won't  /  "  he  said,  clenching  his 
hand  with  a  fierce  frown. 

Eliza  trembled,  and  was  silent.  She  had  never  seen  her 
husband  in  this  mood  before ;  and  her  gentle  system  of  ethics 
seemed  to  bend  like  a  reed  in  the  surges  of  such  passions. 

"You  know  poor  little  Carlo,  that  you  gave  me,"  added 
George ;  "  the  creature  has  been  about  all  the  comfort  that 
I  Ve  had.  He  has  slept  with  me  nights,  and  followed  me 
around  days,  and  kind  o'  looked  at  me  as  if  he  understood  how 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  19 

I  felt.  Well,  the  other  day  I  was  just  feeding  him  with  a  few 
old  scraps  I  picked  up  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  Mas'r  came 
along,  and  said  I  was  feeding  him  up  at  his  expense,  and  that 
he  could  n't  afford  to  have  every  nigger  keeping  his  dog,  and 
ordered  me  to  tie  a  stone  to  his  neck  and  throw  him  in  the 
pond." 

"  Oh,  George,  you  did  n't  do  it !  " 

"  Do  it  ?  not  I !  —  but  he  did.  Mas'r  Tom  pelted  the  poor 
drowning  creature  with  stones.  Poor  thing !  he  looked  at  me 
so  mournful,  as  if  he  wondered  why  I  did  n't  save  him.  I  had 
to  take  a  flogging  because  I  would  n't  do  it  myself.  I  don't 
care.  Mas'r  will  find  out  that  I  'm  one  that  whipping  won't 
tame.  My  day  will  come  yet,  if  he  don't  look  out." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Oh,  George,  don't  do  anything 
wicked ;  if  you  only  trust  in  God,  and  try  to  do  right,  he  '11  de 
liver  you." 

"  I  an't  a  Christian  like  you,  Eliza  ;  my  heart 's  full  of  bitter 
ness  ;  I  can't  trust  in  God.  Why  does  he  let  things  be  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  George,  we  must  have  faith.  Mistress  says  that  when 
all  things  go  wrong  to  us,  we  must  believe  that  God  is  doing  the 
very  best." 

"  That 's  easy  to  say  for  people  that  are  sitting  on  their  sofas 
and  riding  in  their  carriages ;  but  let  'em  be  where  I  am,  I 
guess  it  would  come  some  harder.  I  wish  I  could  be  good; 
but  my  heart  burns,  and  can't  be  reconciled,  anyhow.  You 
couldn't,  in  my  place,— -you  can't  now,  if  I  tell  you  all  I've 
got  to  say.  You  don't  know  the  whole  yet." 

"  What  can  be  coming  now  ?  " 

"  Well,  lately  Mas'r  has  been  saying  that  he  was  a  fool  to  let 
me  marry  off  the  place ;  that  he  hates  Mr.  Shelby  and  all  his 
tribe,  because  they  are  proud,  and  hold  their  heads  up  above 
him,  and  that  I  've  got  proud  notions  from  you ;  and  he  says  he 
won't  let  me  come  here  any  more,  and  that  I  shall  take  a  wife 
and  settle  down  on  his  place.  At  first  he  only  scolded  and 
grumbled  these  things ;  but  yesterday  he  told  me  that  I  should 
take  Mina  for  a  wife,  and  settle  down  in  a  cabin  with  her,  or 
he  would  sell  me  down  river." 

"  Why  —  but  you  were  married  to  me,  by  the  minister,  as 
much  as  if  you  'd  been  a  white  man !  "  said  Eliza,  simply. 


20  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

*  Don't,  you  know  a  slave  can't  be  married  ?  There  is  no  law 
in  this  country  for  that;  I  can't  hold  you  for  my  wife  if  he 
chooses  to  part  us.  That 's  why  I  wish  I  'd  never  seen  you,  — 
why  I  wish  I  'd  never  been  born ;  it  would  have  been  better  for 
us  both,  —  it  would  have  been  better  for  this  poor  child  if  he 
had  never  been  born.  All  this  may  happen  to  him  yet !  " 

"  Oh,  but  master  is  so  kind !  " 

"  Yes,  but  who  knows  ?  —  he  may  die,  —  and  then  he  may 
be  sold  to  nobody  knows  who.  What  pleasure  is  it  that  he  ia 
handsome,  and  smart,  and  bright?  I  tell  you,  Eliza,  that  a 
sword  will  pierce  through  your  soul  for  every  good  and  pleasant 
thing  your  child  is  or  has ;  it  will  make  him  worth  too  much 
for  you  to  keep !  " 

The  words  smote  heavily  on  Eliza's  heart*;  the  vision  of  the 
trader  came  before  her  eyes,  and,  as  if  some  one  had  struck  her 
a  deadly  blow,  she  turned  pale  and  gaspecl  for  breath.  She 
looked  nervously  out  on  the  veranda,  where  the  boy,  tired  of 
the  grave  conversation,  had  retired,  and  wheje  he  was  riding 
triumphantly  up  and  down  on  Mr.  Shelby's  walking-stick.  She 
would  have  spoken  to  tell  her  husband  her  fejars,  but  checked 
herself. 

"No,  rife, — he  has  enough  to  bear,  poor  felloV!"  she  thought. 
"  No,  I  won't  xell  him ;  besides,  it  an't  true.  Missis  never  de 
ceives  us." 

"  So,  Eliza,  my  girl,"  said  the  husband,  mournfully,  "  bear 
up,  now ;  and  good-by,  for  I  'm  going." 

"  Going,  George  !     Going  where  ?  " 

"  To  Canada,"  said  he,  straightening  himself  up  ;  "  and  when 
I  'm  there,  I  '11  buy  you ;  that 's  all  the  hope  that 's  left  us. 
You  have  a  kind  master,  that  won't  refuse  to  sell  you.  I  '11 
buy  you  and  the  boy ;  —  God  helping  me,  I  will !  " 

"  Oh,  dreadful !  if  you  should  be  taken  ?  " 

"  I  won't  be  taken,  Eliza ;  I  '11  die  first !  I  '11  be  free,  or 
I  '11  die !  " 

"  You  won't  kill  yourself !  " 

"No  need  of  that.  They  will  kill  me,  fast  enough;  they 
never  will  get  me  down  the  river  alive !  " 

"  Oh,  George,  for  my  sake,  do  be  careful !  Don't  do  anything 
wicked ;  don't  lay  hands  on  yourself,  or  anybody  else.  You 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  21 

are  tempted  too  much  —  too  much;  but  don't  —  go  you  must 
—  but  go  carefully,  prudently ;  pray  God  to  help  you." 

"  Well,  then,  Eliza,  hear  my  plan.  Mas'r  took  it  into  his 
head  to  send  me  right  by  here,  with  a  note  to  Mr.  Symmes,  that 
lives  a  mile  past.  I  believe  he  expected  I  should  come  here  to 
tell  you  what  I  have.  It  would  please  him  if  he  thought  it 
would  aggravate  '  Shelby's  folk's,'  as  he  calls  'em.  I  'm  going 
home  quite  resigned,  you  understand,  as  if  all  was  over.  I  've 
got  some  preparations  made,  —  and  there  are  those  that  will 
help  me ;  and,  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  so,  I  shall  be  among 
the  missing,  some  day.  Pray  for  me,  Eliza ;  perhaps  the  good 
Lord  will  hear  you" 

"  Oh,  pray  yourself,  George,  and  go  trusting  in  him  ;  then  you 
won't  do  anything  wicked." 

"Well,  now,  good-by,"  said  George,  holding  Eliza's  hands, 
and  gazing  into  her  eyes,  without  moving.  They  stood  silent; 
then  there  were  last  words,  and  sobs,  and  bitter  weeping,  —  such 
parting  as  those  may  make  whose  hope  to  meet  again  is  as  the 
spider's  web,  —  and  the  husband  and  wife  were  parted. 


22  UNCLE   TOM3S   CABIN;   OR, 


CHAPTER   IV. 

AN  EVENING   IN   UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN. 

THE  cabin  of  Uncle  Tom  was  a  small  log  building  close  ad 
joining  to  "  the  house,"  as  the  negro  par  excellence  designates 
his  master's  dwelling.  -In  front  it  had  a  neat  garden-patch, 
where,  every  summer,  strawberries,  raspberries,  and  a  variety  of 
fruits  and  vegetables  flourished  under  careful  tending.  The 
whole  front  of  it  was  covered  by  a  large  scarlet  bignonia  and  a 
native  multiflora  rose,  which,  entwisting  and  interlacing,  left 
scarce  a  vestige  of  the  rough  logs  to  be  seen.  Here,  also,  in 
summer,  various  brilliant  annuals,  such  as  marigolds,  petunias, 
four-o'clocks,  found  an  indulgent  corner  in  which  to  unfold 
their  splendors,  and  were  the  delight  and  pride  of  Aunt  Chloe's 
heart. 

Let  us  enter  the  dwelling.  The  evening  meal  at  the  house 
is  over,  and  Aunt  Chloe,  who  presided  over  its  preparation  as 
head  cook,  has  left  to  inferior  officers  in  the  kitchen  the  busi 
ness  of  clearing  away  and  washing  dishes,  and  come  out  into 
her  own  snug  territories,  to  "  get  her  ole  man's  supper  " ;  there 
fore,  doubt  not  that  it  is  she  you  see  by  the  fire,  presiding  with 
anxious  interest  over  certain  frizzling  items  in  a  stewpan,  and 
anon  with  grave  consideration  lifting  the  cover  of  a  bake-kettle, 
from  whence  steam  forth  indubitable  intimations  of  "  something 
good."  A  round,  black,  shining  face  is  hers,  so  glossy  as  to 
suggest  the  idea  that  she  might  have  been  washed  over  with 
white  of  eggs,  like  one  of  her  own  tea  rusks.  Her  whole  plump 
countenance  beams  with  satisfaction  and  contentment  from  un 
der  her  well-starched  checked  turban,  bearing  on  it,  however, 
if  we  must  confess  it,  a  little  of  that  tinge  of  self-consciousness 
which  becomes  the  first  cook  of  the  neighborhood,  as  Aunt  Chloe 
was  universally  held  and  acknowledged  to  be, 

A  cook  she  certainly  was,  in  the  very  bone  and  centre  of 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  23 

her  soul.  Not  a  chicken  or  turkey  or  duck  in  the  barnyard 
but  looked  grave  when  they  saw  her  approaching,  and  seemed 
evidently  to  be  reflecting  on  their  latter  end  ;  and  certain  it 
was  that  she  was  always  meditating  on  trussing,  stuffing,  and 
roasting,  to  a  degree  that  was  calculated  to  inspire  terror  in 
any  reflecting  fowl  living.  Her  corn-cake,  in  all  its  varieties 
of  hoe-cake,  dodgers,  muffins,  and  other  species  too  numerous 
to  mention,  was  a  sublime  mystery  to  all  less  practised  corn- 
pounders  ;  and  she  would  shake  her  fat  sides  with  honest  prida 
and  merriment,  as  she  would  narrate  the  fruitless  efforts  that 
one  and  another  of  her  compeers  had  made  to  attain  to  her 
elevation. 

The  arrival  of  company  at  the  house,  the  arranging  of  din 
ners  and  suppers  "  in  style,"  awoke  all  the  energies  of  her  soul ; 
and  no  sight  was  more  welcome  to  her  than  a  pile  of  travelling 
trunks  launched  on  the  veranda,  for  then  she  foresaw  fresh 
efforts  and  fresh  triumphs. 

Just  at  present,  however,  Aunt  Chloe  is  looking  into  the  bake- 
pan ;  in  which  congenial  operation  we  shall  leave  her  till  we 
finish  our  picture  of  the  cottage. 

In  one  corner  of  it  stood  a  bed,  covered  neatly  with  a  snowy 
spread ;  and  by  the  side  of  it  was  a  piece  of  carpeting,  of  some 
considerable  size.  On  this  piece  of  carpeting  Aunt  Chloe  took 
her  stand,  as  being  decidedly  in  the  upper  walks  of  life  ;  and  it 
and  the  bed  by  which  it  lay,  and  the  whole  corner,  in  fact,  were 
treated  with  distinguished  consideration,  and  made,  so  far  as 
possible,  sacred  from  the  marauding  inroads  and  desecrations 
of  little  folks.  In  fact,  that  corner  was  the  drawing-room  of 
the  establishment.  In  the  other  corner  was  a  bed  of  much 
humbler  pretensions,  and  evidently  designed  for  use.  The  wall 
over  the  fireplace  was  adorned  with  some  very  brilliant  scrip 
tural  prints,  and  a  portrait  of  General  Washington,  drawn  and 
colored  in  a  manner  which  would  certainly  have  astonished  that 
hero,  if  ever  he  had  happened  to  meet  with  its  like. 

On  a  rough  bench  in  the  corner,  a  couple  of  woolly-headed 
boys,  with  glistening  black  eyes  and  fat  shining  cheeks,  were 
busy  in  superintending  the  first  walking  operations  of  the  baby, 
which,  as  is  usually  the  case,  consisted  in  getting  up  on  its  feet, 
balancing  a  moment,  and  then  tumbling  down,  —  each  sue- 


24  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

cessive  failure  being  violently  cheered,  as  something  decidedly 
clever. 

A  table,  somewhat  rheumatic  in  its  limbs,  was  drawn  out  in 
front  of  the  fire,  and  covered  with  a  cloth,  displaying  cups  and 
saucers  of  a  decidedly  brilliant  pattern,  with  other  symptoms  of 
an  approaching  meal.  At  this  table  was  seated  Uncle  Tom,  Mr. 
Shelby's  best  hand,  who,  as  he  is  to  be  the  hero  of  our  story,  we 
must  daguerreotype  for  our  readers.  He  was  a  large,  broad- 
chested,  powerfully  made  man,  of  a  full  glossy  black,  and  a  face 
whose  truly  African  features  were  characterized  by  an  expres 
sion  of  grave  and  steady  good  sense,  united  with  much  kindli 
ness  and  benevolence.  There  was  something  about  his  whole 
air  self-respecting  and  dignified,  yet  united  with  a  confiding  and 
humble  simplicity. 

He  was  very  busily  intent  at  this  moment  on  a  slate  lying 
before  him,  on  which  he  was  carefully  and  slowly  endeavoring 
to  accomplish  a  copy  of  some  letters,  in  which  operation  he  was 
overlooked  by  young  Mas'r  George,  a  smart,  bright  boy  of  thir' 
teen,  who  appeared  fully  to  realize  the  dignity  of  his  position  atf 
instructor. 

"  Not  that  way,  Uncle  Tom,  — not  that  way,"  said  he,  briskly, 
as  Uncle  Tom  laboriously  brought  up  the  tail  of  his  g  the  wrong 
side  out ;  "  that  makes  a  q,  you  see." 

"  La  sakes,  now,  does  it  ? "  said  Uncle  Tom,  looking  with 
a  respectful,  admiring  air,  as  his  young  teacher  flourishingly 
scrawled  ^'s  and  <jr's  innumerable  for  his  edification ;  and  then, 
taking  the  pencil  in  his  big,  heavy  fingers,  he  patiently  recom 
menced. 

"  How  easy  white  folks  al'us  does  things  !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe, 
pausing  while  she  was  greasing  a  griddle  with  a  scrap  of  bacon 
on  her  fork,  and  regarding  young  Master  George  with  pride. 
"  The  way  he  can  write,  now !  and  read,  too  !  and  then  to  come 
out  here  evenings  and  read  his  lessons  to  us,  —  it  's  mighty  in 
terestin' !  " 

"  But,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  *m  getting  mighty  hungry,"  said  George. 
u  Is  n't  that  cake  in  the  skillet  almost  done  ?  " 

"Mose  done,  Mas'r  George,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  lifting  the  lid 
and  peeping  in,  —  "  browning  beautiful,  —  a  real  lovely  brown. 
Ah  !  m  let  me  alone  for  dat.  Missis  let  Sally  try  to  make  some 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  25 

cake,  t'  other  day,  jes  to  lam  her,  she  said.  '  Oh,  go  way  Missis/ 
says  I ;  '  it  really  hurts  my  feelin's,  now,  to  see  good  vittles 
spiled  dat  ar  way  !  Cake  ris  all  to  one  side,  —  no  shape  at  all ; 
no  more  than  my  shoe  ;  —  go  way  ! ' ' 

And  with  this  final  expression  of  contempt  for  Sally's  green 
ness,  Aunt  Chloe  wliipped  the  cover  off  the  bake-kettle,  and  dis 
closed  to  view  a  neatly  baked  pound-cake,  of  which  no  city  con 
fectioner  need  to  have  been  ashamed.  This  being  evidently  the 
central  point  of  the  entertainment,  Aunt  Chloe  began  now  to 
bustle  about  earnestly  in  the  supper  department. 

"  Here  you,  Mose  and  Pete !  get  out  de  way,  you  niggers ! 
Get  away,  Polly,  honey,  —  mammy  '11  give  her  baby  somefin, 
by  and  by.  Now,  Mas'r  George,  you  jest  take  off  dem  books, 
and  set  down  n0w  with  my  old  man,  and  I  '11  take  up  de  sau 
sages,  and  have  fte  first  griddle  full  of  cakes  on  your  plates  in 
less  dan  no  time." 

"They  wanted  me  to  come  to  supper  in  the  house,"  said 
George  ;  "  but  I  knew  what  was  What  too  well  for  that,  Aunt 
Chloe." 

"  So  you  did,  —  so  you  did,  honey,"  said  Aunt  Chjoe,  heap 
ing  the  smoking  batter-cakes  on  his  plate  ;  "  you  know'd  your 
old  aunty  'd  keep  the  best  for  you.  Oh,  let  you  alone  for  dat ! 
Go  way !  "  and,  with  that,  aunty  gave  George  a  nudge  with  her 
finger,  designed  to  be  immensely  facetious,  and  turned  again  to 
her  griddle  with  great  briskness. 

"  Now  for  the  cake,"  said  Mas'r  George,  when  the  activity 
of  the  griddle  department  had  somewhat  subsided ;  and,  with 
that,  the  youngster  flourished  a  large  knife  over  the  ajoticle  in 
question. 

"  La  bless  you,  Mas'r  George  !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  with  earnest 
ness,  catching  his  arm,  "  you  would  n't  be  for  cuttin'  it  wid  dat 
ar  great  heavy  knife  !  Smash  all  down,  —  spile  all  de  pretty  rise 
of  it.  Here,  I  've  got  a  thin  old  knife,  I  keeps  sharp  a  purpose. 
Dar  now,  see  !  comes  apart  light  as  a  feather !  Now  eat  aAvay, 
—  you  won't  get  anything  to  beat  dat  ar." 

fjTDom  Lincon  says,"  said  George,  speaking  with  his  mouth 
full,  "  that  their  Jinny  is  a  better  cook  than  you." 

"  Dem  Lincons  an't  much  'count,  no  way  !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe, 
contemptuously ;  "I  mean,  set  alongside  our  folks.  They 's 


20  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

'spectable  folks  enough  in  a  kinder  plain  way  ;  but,  as  to  gettin' 
up  anything  in  style,  they  don't  begin  to  have  a  notion  on  't. 
Set  Mas'r  Lincon,  now,  alongside  Mas'r  Shelby  !  Good  Lor ! 
and  Missis  Lincon,  —  can  she  kinder  sweep  it  into  a  room  like 
my  missis,  —  so  kinder  splendid,  yer  know  !  Oh,  go  way ! 
don't  tell  me  nothin'  of  dem  Lincons !  "  —  and  Aunt  Chloe 
tossed  her  head  as  one  who  hoped  she  did  know  something  of 
the  world. 

"  Well,  though,  I  Ve  heard  you  say,"  said  George,  "  that 
Jinny  was  a  pretty  fair  cook." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  —  "I  may  say  dat.  Good, 
plain,  common  cookin'  Jinny  11  do ;  —  make  a  good  pone  o' 
bread,  —  bile  her  taters/or,  —  her  corn  cakes  is  n't  extra,  not 
extra  now,  Jinny's  corn  cakes  is  n't,  but  then  they  's  far,  —  but, 
Lor,  come  to  de  higher  branches,  and  what  can  she  do  ?  Why, 
she  makes  pies,  —  sartin  she  does ;  but  what  kinder  crust  ?  Can 
she  make  your  real  flecky  paste,  as  melts  in  your  mouth,  and 
lies  all  up  like  a  puff  ?  Now,  I  went  over  thar  when  Miss  Mary 
was  gwine  to  be  married,  and  Jinny  she  jest  showed  me  de 
weddin'  pies.  Jinny  and  I  is  good  friends,  ye  know.  I  never 
*aid  nothin' ;  but  go  long,  Mas'r  George  !  Why,  I  should  n't 
sleep  a  wink  for  a  week,  if  I  had  a  batch  of  pies  like  dem  ar. 
Why,  dey  war  n't  no  'count  't  all." 

"I  suppose  Jinny  thought  they  were  ever  so  nice,"  said 
George. 

"  Thought  so  !  • —  did  n't  she  ?  Thar  she  was,  showing  'em  as 
innocent,  —  ye  see,  it  's  jest  here,  Jinny  don't  know.  Lor,  the 
family  an't  nothing  !  She  can't  be  spected  to  know  !  'T  an't 
no  fault  o'  hern.  Ah,  Mas'r  George,  you  does  n't  know  half 
your  privileges  in  yer  family  and  bringin'  up  !  "  Here  Aunt 
Chloe  sighed,  and  rolled  up  her  eyes  with  emotion. 

"  I  'm  sure,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  understand  all  my  pie  and  pudding 
privileges,"  said  George.  "  Ask  Tom  Lincon  if  I  don't  crow 
over  him,  every  time  I  meet  him." 

Aunt  Chloe  sat  back  in  her  chair,  and  indulged  in  a  hearty 
guffaw  of  laughter,  at  this  witticism  of  young  Mas'r's,  laughing 
till  the  tears  rolled  down  her  black,  shining  cheeks,  and  varying 
the  exercise  with  playfully  slapping  and  poking  Mas'r  Georgey, 
and  telling  him  to  go  way,  and  that  he  was  a  case,  —  that  he 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  27 

was  fit  to  kill  her,  and  that  he  sartin  would  kill  her,  one  of  these 
days  ;  and,  between  each  of  these  sanguinary  predictions,  going 
off  into  a  laugh,  each  longer  and  stronger  than  the  other,  till 
George  really  began  to  think  that  he  was  a  very  dangerously 
witty  fellow,  and  that  it  became  him  to  be  careful  how  he  talked 
"  as  funny  as  he  could." 

"  And  so  ye  telled  Tom,  did  ye  ?  Oh,  Lor !  what  young  uns 
will  be  up  ter  !  Ye  crowed  over  Tom  ?  Oh,  Lor !  Mas'r  George, 
if  ye  would  n't  make  a  hornbug  laugh  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  George,  "  I  says  to  him,  *  Tom,  you  ought  to  see 
some  of  Aunt  Chloe's  pies  ;  they  're  the  right  sort,'  says  I." 

"  Pity  now,  Tom  could  n't,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  on  whose  be 
nevolent  heart  the  idea  of  Tom's  benighted  condition  seemed  to 
make  a  strong  impression.  "  Ye  oughter  just  ask  him  here  to 
dinner,  some  o'  these  times,  Mas'r  George,"  she  added ;  "  it 
would  look  quite  pretty  of  ye.  Ye  know,  Mas'r  George,  ye 
oughtenter  feel  'bove  nobody,  on  'count  yer  privileges,  'cause  all 
our  privileges  is  gi'n  to  us ;  we  ought  al'ays  to  'member  that," 
said  Aunt  Chloe,  looking  quite  serious. 

"  Well,  I  mean  to  ask  Tom  here,  some  day  next  week,"  said 
George ;  "  and  you  do  your  prettiest,  Aunt  Chloe,  and  we  '11 
make  him  stare.  Won't  we  make  him  eat  so  he  won't  get  over 
it  for  a  fortnight  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  —  sartin,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  delighted  ;  "  you  '11 
see.  Lor  !  to  think  of  some  of  our  dinners  !  Yer  mind  dat  ar 
great  chicken-pie  I  made  when  we  guv  de  dinner  to  General 
Knox  ?  I  and  Missis,  we  come  pretty  near  quarrelling  about 
dat  ar  crust.  What  does  get  into  ladies  sometimes,  I  don't 
know ;  but,  sometimes,  when  a  body  has  de  heaviest  kind  o' 
'sponsibility  on  'em,  as  ye  may  say,  and  is  all  kinder  '  seris ' 
and  taken  up,  dey  takes  dat  ar  time  to  be  hangin'  round  and 
kinder  interferin' !  Now,  Missis,  she  wanted  me  to  do  dis  way, 
and  she  wanted  me  to  do  dat  reay ;  and,  finally,  I  got  kinder 
sarcy,  and,  says  I,  *  Now,  Missis,  do  jist  look  at  dem  beauti 
ful  white  hands  o'  yourn,  with  long  fingers,  and  all  a  spar 
kling  with  rings,  like  my  white  lilies  when  de  dew 's  on  'em ; 
and  look  at  my  great  black  stumpin'  hands.  Now,  don't  ye 
think  dat  de  Lord  must  have  meant  me  to  make  de  pie-crust, 
and  you  to  stay  in  de  parlor?'  Darl  I  was  jist  so  sarcy,  Mas'r 
George." 


28  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  And  what  did  mother  say  ?  "  said  George. 

"  Say  ?  —  why,  she  kinder  larfed  in  her  eyes,  —  dem  great 
handsome  eyes  o'  hern  ;  and,  says  she,  '  Well,  Aunt  Chloe,  I 
think  you  are  about  in  the  right  on  't,'  says  she  ;  and  she  went 
off  in  de  parlor.  She  oughter  cracked  me  over  de  head  for 
hein'  so  sarcy ;  but  dar  's  whar  't  is,  —  I  can't  do  nothin'  with 
ladies  in  de  kitchen  !  " 

"  Well,  you  made  out  well  with  that  dinner,  —  I  remember 
everybody  said  so,"  said  George. 

"  Did  n't  I  ?  And  wan't  I  behind  de  dinm'-room  door  dat- 
bery  day  ?  and  did  n't  I  see  de  General  pass  his  plate  three 
times  for  some  more  dat  bery  pie  ?  —  and,  says  he,  '  You  must 
have  an  uncommon  cook,  Mrs.  Shelby.'  Lor  !  I  was  fit  to  split 
myself." 

"  And  de  Gineral,  he  knows  what  cookin'  is,"  said  Aunt 
Chloe,  drawing  herself  up  with  an  air.  "  Bery  nice  man,  de 
Gineral!  He  comes  of  one  of  de  bery  fittest  families  in  Old 
Virginny  !  He  knows  what 's  what,  now,  as  well  as  I  do,  —  de 
Gineral.  Ye  see,  there  's  pints  in  all  pies,  Mas'r  George  ;  but 
Jt  an't  everybody  knows  what  they  is,  or  orter  be.  But  the 
Gineral,  he  knows  ;  I  knew  by  his  'marks  he  made.  Yes,  he 
knows  what  de  pints  is  !  " 

By  this  time,  Master  George  had  arrived  at  that  pass  to  which 
even  a  boy  can  come  (under  uncommon  circumstances),  when 
he  really  could  not  eat  another  morsel,  and,  therefore  he  was 
at  leisure  to  notice  the  pile  of  woolly  heads  and  glistening  eyes 
which  were  regarding  their  operations  hungrily  from  the  opposite 
corner. 

"  Here,  you  Mose,  Pete,"  he  said,  breaking  off  liberal  bits, 
and  throwing  it  at  them  ;  "  you  want  some,  don't  you  ?  Come, 
Aunt  Chloe,  bake  them  some  cakes." 

And  George  and  Tom  moved  to  a  comfortable  seat  in  the 
chimney-corner,  while  Aunt  Chloe,  after  baking  a  goodly  pile 
of  cakes,  took  her  baby  on  her  lap,  and  began  alternately  filling 
its  mouth  and  her  own,  and  distributing  to  Mose  and  Pete,  who 
seemed  rather  to  prefer  eating  theirs  as  they  rolled  about  on  the 
floor  under  the  table,  tickling  each  other,  and  occasionally  pull 
ing  the  baby's  toes. 

"  Oh,  go  long,  will  ye  ?  "  said  the  mother,  giving  now  and  theu 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  29 

a  kick,  in  a  kind  of  general  way,  under  the  table,  when  the  move 
ment  became  too  obstreperous.  "  Can't  ye  be  decent  when 
white  folks  comes  to  see  ye  ?  Stop  dat  ar,  now,  will  ye  ?  Better 
mind  yerselves,  or  I  '11  take  ye  down  a  button-hole  lower,  when 
Mas'r  George  is  gone  !  " 

What  meaning  was  couched  under  this  terrible  threat,  it  is 
difficult  to  say ;  but  certain  it  is  that  its  awful  indistinctness 
seemed  to  produce  very  little  impression  on  the  young  sinners 
addressed. 

"  La,  now  !  "  said  Uncle  Tom,  "  they  are  so  full  of  tickle  all 
the  while,  they  can't  behave  theirselves." 

Here  the  boys  emerged  from  under  the  table,  and,  with  hands 
and  faces  well  plastered  with  molasses,  began  a  vigorous  kissing 
of  the  baby. 

"  Get  along  wid  ye !  "  said  the  mother,  pushing  away  their 
woolly  heads.  "  Ye  '11  all  stick  together,  and  never  get  clar,  if 
ye  do  dat  fashion.  Go  long  to  de  spring  and  wash  yerselves  !  *" 
she  said,  seconding  her  exhortations  by  a  slap,  which  resounded 
very  formidably,  but  which  seemed  only  to  knock  out  so  much 
more  laugh  from  the  young  ones,  as  they  tumbled  precipitately 
over  each  other  out  of  doors,  where  they  fairly  screamed  with 
merriment. 

**  Did  ye  ever  see  such  aggravating  young  tins  ?  "  said  Aunt 
Chloe,  rather  complacently,  as,  producing  an  old  towel,  kept  for 
such  emergencies,  she  poured  a  little  water  out  of  the  cracked 
teapot  on  it,  and  began  rubbing  off  the  molasses  from  the  baby's 
face  and  hands ;  and,  having  polished  her  till  she  shone,  she 
set  her  down  in  Tom's  lap,  while  she  busied  herself  in  clearing 
away  supper.  The  baby  employed  the  intervals  in  pulling  Tom's 
nose,  scratching  his  face,  and  burying  her  fat  hands  in  his 
woolly  hair,  which  last  operation  seemed  to  afford  her  special 
content. 

"  An't  she  a  peart  young  un  ?  "  said  Tom,  holding  her  from 
him  to  take  a  full-length  view ;  then,  getting  up,  he  set  her  on 
his  broad  shoulder  and  began  capering  and  dancing  with  her 
while  Mas'r  George  snapped  at  her  with  his  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  Mose  and  Pete,  now  returned  again,  roared  after  her  like 
bears,  till  Aunt  Chloe  declared  that  they  "  fairly  took  her  head 
off  "  with  their  noise.  As,  according  to  her  own  statement,  this 


30  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

surgical  operation  was  a  matter  of  daily  occurrence  in  the  cabin, 
the  declaration  no  whit  abated  the  merriment,  till  every  one  had 
roared  and  tumbled  and  danced  themselves  down  to  a  state  of 
composure. 

"  Well,  now,  I  hopes  you  're  done,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  who 
had  been  busy  in  pulling  out  a  rude  box  of  a  trundle-bed ; 
"  and  now,  you  Mose  and  you  Pete,  get  into  thar ;  for  we  's 
goin'  to  have  the  meetin'." 

"  Oh, mother,  we  don't  wanter-  We  wants  to  sit  up  to  meetin', 
—  meetin's  is  so  curis.  We  likes  'em." 

"La,  Aunt  Chloe,  shove  it  under,  and  let  'em  sit  up,"  said 
Mas'r  George,  decisively,  giving  a  push  to  the  rude  machine. 

Aunt  Chloe,  having  thus  saved  appearances,  seemed  highly 
delighted  to  push  the  thing  under,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  Well, 
mebbe  't  will  do  'em  some  good." 

The  house  now  resolved  itself  into  a  committee  of  the  whole, 
to  consider  the  accommodations  and  arrangements  for  the 
meeting. 

"  What  we  's  to  do  for  cheers,  now,  I  declar  I  don't  know," 
said  Aunt  Chloe.  As  the  meeting  had  been  held  at  Uncle 
Tom's,  weekly,  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time,  without  any 
more  "  cheers,"  there  seemed  some  encouragement  to  hope  that 
a  way  would  be  discovered  at  present. 

"  Old  Uncle  Peter  sung  both  de  legs  out  of  dat  oldest  cheer, 
last  week,"  suggested  Mose. 

"  You  go  long !  I  '11  boun'  you  pulled  'em  out ;  some  o'  your 
shines,"  said  Aunt  Chloe. 

"  Well,  it  '11  stand,  if  it  only  keeps  jam  up  agin  de  wall !  " 
said  Mose. 

"  Den  Uncle  Peter  mus'  n't  sit  in  it,  cause  he  al'ays  hitches 
when  he  gets  a  singing.  He  hitched  pretty  nigh  across  de 
room,  t'  other  night,"  said  Pete. 

"  Good  Lor !  get  him  in  it,  then,"  said  Mose,  "  and  den 
he  'd  begin,  *  Come  saints  and  sinners,  hear  me  tell,'  and  den 
down  he  'd  go,"  —  and  Mose  imitated  precisely  the  nasal  tones 
of  the  old  man,  tumbling  on  the  floor,  to  illustrate  the  supposed 
catastrophe. 

"Come  now,  be  decent,  can't  ye?"  said  Aunt  Chloe;  "an't 
yer  shamed  ?  " 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  31 

Mas'r  George,  however,  joined  the  offender  in  the  laugh,  and 
declared  decidedly  that  Mose  was  a  "  buster."  So  the  maternal 
admonition  seemed  rather  to  fail  of  effect. 

"  Well,  ole  man,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  "  you  '11  have  to  tote  in 
them  ar  bar'ls." 

"  Mother's  bar'ls  is  like  dat  ar  widder's,  Mas'r  George  was 
reading  'bout,  in  de  good  book,  —  dey  never  fails,"  said  Mose, 
aside  to  Pete. 

"  I  'm  sure  one  on  'em  caved  in  last  week,"  said  Pete,  "  and 
let  'em  all  down  in-  de  middle  of  de  singin' ;  dat  ar  was  failin', 
warn't  it  ?  " 

During  this  aside  between  Mose  and  Pete  two  empty  casks 
had  been  rolled  into  the  cabin,  and  being  secured  from  rolling, 
by  stones  on  each  side,  boards  were  laid  across  them,  which 
arrangement,  together  with  the  turning  down  of  certain  tubs 
and  pails,  and  the  disposing  of  the  rickety  chairs,  at  last  com 
pleted  the  preparation. 

"  Mas'r  George  is  such  a  beautiful  reader,  now,  I  know  he  '11 
stay  to  read  for  us,"  said  Aunt  Chloe;  "'pears  like 't  will  be 
so  much  more  interestin'." 

George  very  readily  consented,  for  your  boy  is  always  ready 
for  anything  that  makes  him  of  importance. 

The  room  was  soon  filled  with  a  motley  assemblage,  from  the 
old  gray-headed  patriarch  of  eighty,  to  the  young  girl  and  lad 
of  fifteen.  A  little  harmless  gossip  ensued  on  various  themes, 
such  as  where  old  Aunt  Sally  got  her  new  red  head-kerchief, 
and  how  "  Missis  was  a  going  to  give  Lizzy  that  spotted  mus 
lin  gown,  when  she  'd  got  her  new  berage  made  up  "  ;  and  how 
Mas'r  Shelby  was  thinking  of  buying  a  new  sorrel  colt,  that 
was  going  to  prove  an  addition  to  the  glories  of  the  place.  A 
few  of  the  worshippers  belonged  to  families  hard  by,  who  had 
got  permission  to  -attend,  and  who  brought  in  various  choice 
scraps  of  information,  about  the  sayings  and  doings  at  the 
house  and  on  the  place,  which  circulated  as  freely  as  the  same 
sort  of  small  change  does  in  higher  circles. 

After  a  while  the  singing  commenced,  to  the  evident  delight 
of  all  present.  Not  even  all  the  disadvantages  of  nasal  intona 
tion  could  prevent  the  effect  of  the  naturally  fine  voices,  in  airs 
at  once  wild  and  spirited.  The  words  were  sometimes  the 


32  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OB, 

well-known  and  common  hymns  sung  in  the  churches  about, 
and  sometimes  of  a  wilder,  more  indefinite  character,  picked  up 
at  camp-meetings. 

The  chorus  of  one  of  them,  which  ran  as  follows,  was  sung 
with  great  energy  and  unction :  — 

"Die  on  the  field  of  battle, 

Die  on  the  field  of  battle, 

Glory  in  my  soul." 

Another  special  favorite  had  oft  repeated  the  words,  — 

"  Oh,  I  'm  going  to  glory,  — won't  you  come  along  with  me  ? 
Don't  you  see  the  angels  beck'ning,  and  a  calling  me  away  ? 
Don't  you  see  the  golden  city  and  the  everlasting  da}'  ?  " 

There  were  others,  which  made  incessant  mention  of  "  Jor 
dan's  banks,"  and  "  Canaan's  fields,"  and  the  "  New  Jerusa 
lem  ;""  for  the  negro  mind,  impassioned  and  imaginative,  al 
ways  attaches  itself  to  hymns  and  expressions  of  a  vivid  and 
pictorial  nature;  and,  as  they  sung,  some  laughed,  and  some 
cried,  and  some  clapped  hands,  or  shook  hands  rejoicingly 
with  each  other,  as  if  they  had  fairly  gained  the  other  side  of 
the  river. 

Various  exhortations,  or  relations  of  experience,  followed,  and 
intermingled  with  the  singing,  One  old  gray-headed  woman, 
long  past  work,  but  much  revered  as  a  sort  of  chronicle  of  the 
past,  rose,  and  leaning  on  her  staff,  said,  — 

"  Well,  chil'en !  "Well,  I  'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  ye  all  and 
see  ye  all  once  more,  'cause  I  don't  know  when  I  '11  be  gone  to 
glory  ;  but  I  've  done  got  ready,  chil'en  ;  'pears  like  I  'd  got 
my  little  bundle  all  tied  up,  and  my  bonnet  on,  jest  a  waitin' 
for  the  stage  to  come  along  to  take  me  home ;  sometimes,  in 
the  night,  I  think  I  hear  the  wheels  a  rattlin',  and  I  'm  lookin' 
out  all  the  time ;  now,  you  jest  be  ready  too,  for  I  tell  ye  all, 
chil'en,"  she  said,  striking  her  staff  hard  on  the  floor,  "  dat  ar 
glory  is  a  mighty  thing !  It 's  a  mighty  thing,  chil'en,  —  you 
don'no  nothing  about  it,  — it 's  wonderful."  And  the  old  crea 
ture  sat  down,  with  streaming  tears,  as  wholly  overcome,  while 
the  whole  circle  struck  up,  — 

"0  Canaan,  bright  Canaan, 
I  'm  bound  fo-.  the  land  of  Canaan." 

Mas'r  George,  by  request,  read  the  last  chapters  of  Revela- 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY. 

tion,  often  interrupted  by  such  exclamations  as  "The  sakes 
now!"  "Only  hear  that!"  "Jest  think  on  't  !  "  "Is  all 
thai  a  comin'  sure  enough  ?  " 

George,  who  was  a  bright  boy,  and  well  trained  in  religious 
things  by  his  mother,  finding  himself  an  object  of  general  ad 
miration,  thiew  in  expositions  of  his  own,  from  time  to  time, 
with  a  commendable  seriousness  and  gravity,  for  which  he  was 
admired  by  the  young  and  blessed  by  the  old  ;  and  it  was 
agreed,  on  all  hands,  that  "  a  minister  could  n't  lay  it  off  better 
than  he  did  "  ;  that  "  't  was  reely  'mazin'  !  " 

Uncle  Tom  was  a  sort  of  patriarch  in  religious  matters,  in  the 
neighborhood.  Having,  naturally,  an  organization  in  which 
the  morale  was  strongly  predominant,  together  with  a  greater 
breadth  and  cultivation  of  mind  than  obtained  among  his  com 
panions,  he  was  looked  up  to  with  great  respect,  as  a  sort  of 
minister  among  them  ;  and  the  simple,  hearty,  sincere  style 
of  his  exhortations  might  have  edified  even  better  educated 
persons.  But  it  was  in  prayer  that  he  especially  excelled. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  touching  simplicity,  the  childlike 
earnestness  of  his  prayer,  enriched  with  the  language  of  Scrip 
ture,  which  seemed  so  entirely  to  have  wrought  itself  into  his 
being,  as  to  have  become  a  part  of  himself,  and  to  drop  from 
his  lips  unconsciously;  in  the  language  of  a  pious  old  negro, 
he  "  prayed  right  up."  And  so  much  did  his  prayer  always 
work  on  the  devotional  feelings  of  his  audiences,  that  there 
seemed  often  a  danger  that  it  would  be  lost  altogether  in  the 
abundance  of  the  responses  which  broke  out  everywhere  around 
him. 


While  this  scene  Avas  passing  in  the  cabin  of  the  man,  one 
quite  otherwise  passed  in  the  halls  of  the  master. 

The  trader  and  Mr.  Shelby  were  seated  together  in  the  din 
ing-room  aforenamed,  at  a  table  covered  with  papers  and  writ 
ing  utensils. 

Mr.  Shelby  was  busy  in  counting  some  bundles  of  bills, 
which,  as  they  were  counted,  he  pushed  over  to  the  trader,  who 
counted  them  likewise. 

"  All  fair,"  said  the  trader  ;  "  and  now  for  signing  these  yer." 

Mr.  Shelby  hastily  drew  the  bills  of-  sale  towards  him,  and 
3 


34  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

signed  them,  like  a  man  that  hurries  over  some  disagreeable 
business,  and  then  pushed  them  over  with  the  money.  Haley 
produced,  from  a  well-worn  valise,  a  parchment,  which,  after 
looking  over  it  a  moment,  he  handed  to  Mr.  Shelby,  who  took 
it  with  a  gesture  of  suppressed  eagerness. 

"  Wai,  now,  the  thing  's  done!  "  said  the  trader,  getting  up. 

"  It 's  done !  "  said  Mr.  Shelby,  in  a  musing  tone  ;  and, 
retching  a  long  breath,  he  repeated,  "It's  done  !  " 

"  Yer  don't  seem  to  feel  much  pleased  with  it,  'pears  to  me," 
said  the  trader. 

"  Haley,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  "  I  hope  you  '11  remember  that 
you  promised,  on  your  honor,  you  would  n't  sell  Tom,  without 
knowing  what  sort  of  hands  he  's  going  into." 

"  Why,  you  Ve  just  done  it,  sir,"  said  the  trader. 

"Circumstances,  you  well  know,  obliged  me,"  said  Shelby, 
haughtily. 

"Wai,  you  know,  they  may  'blige  me,  too,"  said  the  trader. 
"  Howsomever,  I  '11  do  the  very  best  I  can  in  gettin'  Tom  a 
good  berth ;  as  to  my  treatin'  on  him  bad,  you  need  n't  be  a 
grain  afeard.  If  there  's  anything  that  I  thank  the  Lord  for,  it 
is  that  I  'm  never  noways  cruel." 

After  the  expositions  which  the  trader  had  previously  given 
of  his  humane  principles,  Mr.  Shelby  did  not  feel  particularly 
reassured  by  these  declarations  ;  but,  as  they  were  the  best 
comfort  the  case  admitted  of,  he  allowed  the  tvader  to  depart 
in  silence,  and  betook  himself  to  a  solitary  cigar. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  35 


CHAPTER  V. 

SHOWING    THE    FEELINGS    OF    LIVING    PROPERTY    ON    CHANGING 

OWNERS. 

MR.  and  Mrs.  Shelby  had  retired  to  their  apartment  for  the 
"night.  He  was  lounging  in  a  large  easy  chair,  looking  over  some 
letters  that  had  come  in  the  afternoon  mail,  and  she  was  stand 
ing  before  her  mirror,  brushing  out  the  complicated  braids  and 
curls  in  which  Eliza  had  arranged  her  hair ;  for,  noticing  her 
pale  cheeks  and  haggard  eyes,  she  had  excused  her  attendance 
that  night,  and  ordered  her  to  bed.  The  employment,  naturally 
enough,  suggested  her  conversation  with  the  girl  in  the  morning ; 
and,  turning  to  her  husband,  she  said,  carelessly,  — 

"  By  the  by,  Arthur,  who  was  that  low-bred  fellow  that  you 
lugged  in  to  our  dinner-table  to-day  ?  " 

"  Haley  is  his  name,"  said  Shelby,  turning  himself  rather  un 
easily  in  his  chair,  and  continuing  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  letter. 

"  Haley !  Who  is  he,  and  what  may  be  his  business  here, 
pray?" 

"  Well,  he 's  a  man  that  I  transacted  some  business  with,  last 
time  I  was  at  Natchez,"  said  Mr.  Shelby. 

"  And  he  presumed  on  it  to  make  himself  quite  at  home,  and 
call  and  dine  here,  ay  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  invited  him ;  I  had  some  accounts  with  him,"  said 
Shelby. 

"  Is  he  a  negro-trader  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  noticing  a  certain 
embarrassment  in  her  husband's  manner. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  put  that  into  your  head?  "  said  Shelby, 
looking  up. 

"  Nothing,  —  only  Eliza  came  in  here,  after  dinner,  in  a 
great  worry,  crying  and  taking  on,  and  said  you  were  .talking 
with  a  trader,  and  that  she  heard  him  make  an  offer  for  her 
boy,  —  the  ridiculous  little  goose !  " 


86  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  She  did,  hey  ?  "  said  Mr.  Shelby,  returning  to  his  paper, 
which  he  seemed  for  a  few  moments  quite  intent  upon,  not  per 
ceiving  that  he  was  holding  it  bottom  upwards. 

"  It  will  have  to  come  out,"  said  he,  mentally ;  "  as  well  now 
as  ever." 

"  I  told  Eliza,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  as  she  continued  brushing 
her  hair,  "  that  she  was  a  little  fool  for  her  pains,  and  that  you 
never  had  anything  to  do  with  that  sort  of  persons.  Of  course, 
I  knew  you  never  meant  to  sell  any  of  our  people,  —  least  of 
all,  to  such  a  fellow." 

"Well,  Emily,"  said  her  husband,  "so  I  have  always  felt  and 
said ;  but  the  fact  is  that  my  business  lies  so  that  I  cannot  get 
on  without.  I  shall  have  to  sell  some  of  my  hands." 

"  To  that  creature  ?  Impossible  !  Mr.  Shelby,  you  cannot 
be  serious." 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  say  that  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Shelby.  "  I  Ve 
agreed  to  sell  Tom." 

"  What !  our  Tom  ?  —  that  good,  faithful  creature  !  —  been 
your  faithful  servant  from  a  boy  !  Oh,  Mr.  Shelby !  —  and  you 
have  promised  him  his  freedom,  too,  —  you  and  I  have  spoken 
to  him  a  hundred  times  of  it.  Well,  I  can  believe  anything 
now,  —  I  can  believe  noiu  that  you  could  sell  little  Harry,  poor 
Eliza's  only  child !  "  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  in  a  tone  between  grief 
and  indignation. 

"  Well,  since  you  must  know  all,  it  is  so.  I  have  agreed  to 
sell  Tom  and  Harry  both ;  and  I  don't  know  why  I  am  to  be 
rated,  as  if  I  were  a  monster,  for  doing  what  every  one  does 
every  day." 

"  But  why,  of  all  others,  choose  these  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Shelby. 
"  Why  sell  them,  of  all  en  the  place,  if  you  must  sell  at  all  ?  " 

"  Because  they  will  bring  the  highest  sum  of  any,  —  that 's 
why.  I  could  choose  another,  if  you  say  so.  The  fellow  made 
me  a  high  bid  on  Eliza,  if  that  would  suit  you  any  better,"  said 
Mr.  Shelby. 

"  The  wretch !  "  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  vehemently. 

"Well,  I  didn't  listen  to  it,  a  moment, — out  of  regard  to 
your  feelings,  I  would  n't ;  —  so  give  me  some  credit." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  recollecting  herself,  "  forgive  me. 
I  have  been  hasty.  I  was  surprised,  and  entirely  unprepared 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  37 

for  this  ;  —  but  surely  you  will  allow  me  to  intercede  for  these 
poor  creatures.  Tom  is  a  noble-hearted,  faithful  fellow,  if  he 
is  black.  I  do  believe,  Mr.  Shelby,  that  if  he  were  put  to  it,  he 
would  lay  down  his  life  for  you." 

"  I  know  it,  —  I  dare  say ;  — but  what 's  the  use  of  all  this  ? 

—  I  can't,  help  myself." 

"  Why  not  make  a  pecuniary  sacrifice  ?  I  'm  willing  to  bear 
my  part  of  the  inconvenience.  Oh,  Mr.  Shelby,  I  have  tried 

—  tried  most  faithfully,  as  a  Christian  woman  should  —  to  do 
my  duty  to  these  poor,  simple,  dependent  creatures.     I  have 
cared  for  them,  instructed  them,  watched  over  them,  and  known  j 
all  their  little  cares  and  joys,  for  years ;  and  how  can  I  ever 
hold  up  my  head  again  among  them,  if,  for  the  sake  of  a  little 
paltry  gain,  we  sell  such  a  faithful,  excellent,  confiding  creature 
as  poor  Tom,  and  tear  from  him  in  a  moment  all  we  have 
taught  him  to  love  and  value  ?     I  have  taught  them  the  duties 
of  the  family,  of  parent  and  child,  and  husband  and  wife ;  and 
how  can  I  bear  to  have  this  open  acknowledgment  that  we 
care  for  no  tie,  no  duty,  no  relation,  however  sacred,  compared 
with  money  ?     I  have  talked  with  Eliza  about  her  boy,  —  her 
duty  to  him  as  a  Christian  mother,  to  watch  over  him,  pray 
for  him,  and  bring  him  up  in  a  Christian  way  ;  and  now  what 
can  I  say,  if  you  tear  him  away,  and  sell  him,  soul  and  body, 
to  a  profane,  unprincipled  man,  just  to  save  a  little  money  ?     I 
have  told  her  that  one  soul  is  worth  more  than  all  the  money 
in  the  world ;  and  how  will  she  believe  me  when  she  sees  us 
turn  round  and  sell  her  child  ?  —  sell  him,  perhaps,  to  certain 
ruin  of  body  and  soul !  " 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  feel  so  about  it,  Emily,  —  indeed  I  am," 
said  Mr.  Shelby ;  "  and  I  respect  your  feelings,  too,  though  I 
don't  pretend  to  share  them  to  their  full  extent ;  but  I  tell  you 
now,  solemnly,  it 's  of  no  use,  —  I  can't  help  myself.  I  did  n't 
mean  to  tell  you  this,  Emily ;  but  in  plain  words,  there  is  no 
choice  between  selling  these  two  and  selling  everything.  Either 
they  must  go,  or  all  must.  Haley  has  come  into  possession  of 
a  mortgage,  which,  if  I  don't  clear  off  with  him  directly,  will 
take  everything  before  it.  I  've  raked,  and  scraped,  and  bor 
rowed,  and  all  but  begged,  —  and  the  price  of  these  two  was 
needed  to  make  up  the  balance,  and  I  had  to  give  them  up. 


38  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

Haley  fancied  the  child ;  he  agreed  to  settle  the  matter  that 
way  and  no  other.  I  was  in  his  j>ower,  and  liad  to  do  it.  If 
you  feel  so  to  have  them  sold,  would  it  be  any  better  to  have 
all  sold  ?  " 

Mrs.  Shelby  stood  like  one  stricken.  Finally,  turning  to  her 
toilet,  she  rested  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  gave  a  sort  of 
groan. 

"  This  is  God's  curse  on  slavery  !  —  a  bitter,  bitter,  most  ac 
cursed  thing !  —  a  curse  to  the  master  and  a  curse  to  the  slave ! 
I  was  a  fool  to  think  I  could  make  anything  good  out  of  such  a 
deadly  evil.  It  is  a  sin  to  hold  a  slave  under  laws  like  ours,  — 
I  always  felt  it  was,  —  I  always  thought  so  when  I  was  a  girl, 

—  I  thought  so  still  more  after  I  joined  the  church ;  but  I  thought 
I  could  gild  it  over,  —  I  thought,  by  kindness,  and  care,  and 
instruction,  I  could    make    the  condition  of  mine  better  than 
freedom,  —  fool  that  I  was  !  " 

"  Why,  wife,  you  are  getting  to  be  an  abolitionist,  quite." 

"  Abolitionist !  if  they  knew  all  I  know  about  slavery  they 
might  talk  !  We  don't  need  them  to  tell  us  ;  you  know  I  never 
thought  that  slavery  was  right,  —  never  felt  willing  to  own 
slaves." 

"  Well,  therein  you  differ  from  many  wise  and  pious  men," 
said  Mr.  Shelby.  "  You  remember  Mr.  B.'s  sermon,  the  other 
Sunday?" 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  such  sermons  ;  I  never  wish  to  hear 
Mr.  B.  in  our  church  again.  Ministers  can't  help  the  evil,  per 
haps,  —  can't  cure  it,  any  more  than  we  can,  —  but  defend  it ! 

—  it  always  went  against  my  common  sense.     And  I  think  you 
did  n't  think  much  of  that  sermon,  either." 

"  Well,"  said  Shelby,  "  I  must  say  these  ministers  sometimes 
carry  matters  further  than  we  poor  sinners  would  exactly  dare 
to  do.  We  men  of  the  world  must  wink  pretty  hard  at  various 
things,  and  get  used  to  a  deal  that  is  n't  the  exact  thing.  But 
we  don't  quite  fancy,  when  women  and  ministers  come  out  broad 
and  square,  and  go  beyond  us  in  matters  of  either  modesty  or 
morals,  that  's  a  fact.  But  now,  my  dear,  I  trust  you  see  the 
necessity  of  the  thing,  and  you  see  that  I  have  done  the  very 
best  that  circumstances  would  allow." 

"  Oh  yes,  yes !  "  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  hurriedly  and  abstractedly 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  89 

fingering  her  gold  watch,  —  "  I  have  n't  any  jewelry  of  any 
amount,"  she  added,  thoughtfully  ;  "  but  would  not  this  watch  do 
something  ?  —  it  v/as  an  expensive  one  when  it  was  bought.  If 
I  could  only  at  least  save  Eliza's  child,  I  would  sacrifice  any 
thing  I  have." 

"  I  'm  sorry,  very  sorry,  Emily,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  "  I  'rn 
sorry  this  takes  hold  of  you  so ;  but  it  will  do  no  good.  The 
fact  is,  Emily,  the  thing  's  done  ;  the  bills  of  sale  are  already 
signed,  and  in  Haley's  hands ;  and  you  must  be  thankful  it  is 
no  worse.  That  man  has  had  it  in  his  power  to  ruin  us  all,  — 
and  now  he  is  fairly  off.  If  you  knew  the  man  as  I  do,  you  'd 
think  that  we  had  had  a  narrow  escape." 

"Is  he  so  hard,  then?" 

"  Why,  not  a  cruel  man,  exactly,  but  a  man  of  leather,  —  a 
man  alive  to  nothing  but  trade  and  profit,  —  cool,  and  unhesi 
tating,  and  unrelenting,  as  death  and  the  grave.  He  'd  sell  his 
own  mother  at  a  good  percentage,  —  not  wishing  the  old  woman 
any  harm,  either." 

"  And  this  wretch  owns  that  good,  faithful  Tom,  and  Eliza's 
child!" 

"  Well,  my  dear,  the  fact  is  that  this  goes  rather  hard  with 
me ;  it 's  a  thing  I  hate  to  think  of.  Haley  wants  to  drive 
matters,  and  take  possession  to-morrow.  I  'm  going  to  get  out 
my  horse  bright  and  early,  and  be  off.  I  can't  see  Tom,  that 's 
a  fact ;  and  you  had  better  arrange  a  drive  somewhere,  and 
carry  Eliza  off.  Let  the  thing  be  done  when  she  is  out  of 
sight." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby ;  "  I  '11  be  in  no  sense  accomplice 
or  help  in  this  cruel  business.  I  '11  go  and  see  poor  old  Tom, 
God  help  him,  in  his  distress !  They  shall  see,  at  any  rate,  that 
their  mistress  can  feel  for  and  with  them.  As  to  Eliza,  I  dare 
not  think  about  it.  The  Lord  forgive  us  !  What  have  we  done, 
that  this  cruel  necessity  should  come  on  us  ?  " 

There  was  one  listener  to  this  conversation  whom  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Shelby  little  suspected. 

Communicating  with  their  apartment  was  a  large  closet,  open 
ing  by  a  door  into  the  outer  passage.  When  Mrs.  Shelby  had 
dismissed  Eliza  for  the  night  her  feverish  and  excited  mind  had 
suggested  the  idea  of  this  closet ;  and  she  had  hidden  herself 


40  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

there,  and  with  her  ear  pressed  close  against  the  crack  of  the 
door,  had  lost  not  a  word  of  the  conversation. 

When  the  voices  died  into  silence,  she  rose  and  crept  stealthily 
away.  Pale,  shivering,  with  rigid  features  and  compressed  lips, 
she  looked  an  entirely  altered  being  from  the  soft  and  timid 
creature  she  had  been  hitherto.  She  moved  cautiously  along  the 
entry,  paused  one  moment  at  her  mistress's  door  and  raised  her 
hands  in  mute  appeal  to  Heaven,  and  then  turned  and  glided 
into  her  own  room.  It  was  a  quiet,  neat  apartment,  on  the 
same  floor  with  her  mistress.  There  was  the  pleasant  sunny 
window,  where  she  had  often  sat  singing  at  her  sewing  ;  there, 
a  little  case  of  books,  and  various  little  fancy  articles,  ranged  by 
them,  the  gifts  of  Christmas  holidays  ;  there  was  her  simple 
wardrobe  in  the  closet  and  in  the  drawers  :  —  here  was,  in  short, 
her  home  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  a  happy  one  it  had  been  to  her. 
But  there,  on  the  bed,  lay  her  slumbering  boy,  his  long  curls 
falling  negligently  around  his  unconscious  face,  his  rosy  mouth 
half  open,  his  little  fat  hands  thrown  out  over  the  bedclothes, 
?ind  a  smile  spread  like  a  sunbeam  over  his  whole  face. 

"  Poor  boy  !  poor  fellow  !  "  said  Eliza  ;  "  they  have  sold  you  ! 
but  your  mother  will  save  you  yet !  " 

No  tear  dropped  over  that  pillow ;  in  such  straits  as  these  the 
heart  has  no  tears  to  give,  —  it  drops  only  blood,  bleeding  it 
self  away  in  silence.  She  took  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil, 
and  wrote  hastily,  — 

"  Oh,  Missis !  dear  Missis  !  don't  think  me  ungrateful,  — 
don't  think  hard  of  me,  any  way,  —  I  heard  all  you  and  master 
said  to-night.  I  am  going  to  try  to  save  my  boy,  —  you  will 
not  blame  me  !  God  bless  and  reward  you  for  all  your  kind- 
ness !  " 

Hastily  folding  and  directing  this,  she  went  to  a  drawer  and 
made  up  a  little  package  of  clothing  for  her  boy,  which  she  tied 
with  a  handkerchief  firmly  round  her  waist ;  and,  so  fond  is  a 
mother's  remembrance,  that,  even  in  the  terrors  of  that  hour, 
she  did  not  forget  to  put  in  the  little  package  one  or  two  of  his 
favorite  toys,  reserving  a  gayly  painted  parrot  to  amuse  him? 
when  she  should  be  called  on  to  awaken  him.  It  was  some 
trouble  to  arouse  the  little  sleeper  ;  but,  after  some  effort,  he  sat 
up,  and  was  playing  with  his  bird,  while  his  mother  was  putting 
on  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  41 

"  Where  are  you  going,  mother  ?  "  said  he,  as  she  drew  near 
the  bed,  with  his  little  coat  and  cap. 

His  mother  drew  near,  and  looked  so  earnestly  into  his  eyes, 
that  he  at  once  divined  that  something  unusual  was  the  mat 
ter. 

"  Hush,  Harry,"  she  said  ;  "  must  n't  speak  loud,  or  they 
will  hear  us.  A  wicked  man  was  coming  to  take  little  Harry 
away  from  his  mother,  and  carry  him  'way  off  in  the  dark  ;  but 
mother  won't  let  him,  —  she  's  going  to  put  on  her  little  boy's 
cap  arid  coat,  and  run  off  with  him,  so  the  ugly  man  can't  catch 
him." 

Saying  these  words,  she  had  tied  and  buttoned  on  the  child's 
simple  outfit,  and,  taking  him  in  her  arms,  she  whispered  to  him 
to  be  very  still ;  and,  opening  a  door  in  her  room  which  led  into 
the  outer  veranda,  she  glided  noiselessly  out. 

It  was  a  sparkling,  frosty,  starlight  night,  and  the  mother 
wrapped  the  shawl  close  round  her  child,  as,  perfectly  quiet  with 
vague  terror,  he  clung  round  her  neck. 

Old  Bruno,  a  great  Newfoundland,  who  slept  at  the  end  of 
the  porch,  rose,  with  a  low  growl,  as  she  came  near.  She 
gently  spoke  his  name,  and  the  animal,  an  old  pet  and  play 
mate  of  hers,  instantly,  wagging  his  tail,  prepared  to  follow  her, 
though  apparently  revolving  much,  in  his  simple  dog's  head, 
what  such  an  indiscreet  midnight  promenade  might  mean. 
Some  dim  ideas  of  imprudence  or  impropriety  in  the  measure 
seemed  to  embarrass  him  considerably  ;  for  he  often  stopped,  as 
Eliza  glided  forward,  and  looked  wistfully,  first  at  her  and  then 
at  the  house,  and  then,  as  if  reassured  by  reflection,  he  pattered 
along  after  her  again.  A  few  minutes  brought  them  to  the 
window  of  Uncle  Tom's  cottage,  and  Eliza,  stopping,  tapped 
lightly  on  the  window-pane. 

The  prayer-meeting  at  Uncle  Tom's  had,  in  the  order  of 
hymn-singing,  been  protracted  to  a  very  late  hour ;  and,  as  Un 
cle  Tom  had  indulged  himself  in  a  few  lengthy  solos  afterwards, 
the  consequence  was,  that,  although  it  was  now  between  twelve 
and  one  o'clock,  he  and  his  worthy  helpmeet  were  not  yet  asleep. 

"  Good  Lord !  what 's  that  ?  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  starting  up 
and  hastily  drawing  the  curtain.  "  My  sakes  alive,  if  it  an't 
Lizy !  Get  on  your  clothes,  old  man,  quick  !  —  there  's  old 


42  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OB, 

Bruno,  too,   a   pawin'  round;  what   on  airth!     I'm  gwine  to 
open  the  door." 

And,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  the  door  flew  open,  and 
the  light  of  the  tallow  candle,  which  Tom  had  hastily  lighted, 
fell  on  the  haggard  face  and  dark,  wild  eyes  of  the  fugitive. 

"  Lord  bless  you  !  —  I  'm  skeered  to  look  at  ye,  Lizy  !  Are 
ye  tuck  sick,  or  what 's  come  over  ye  ?  " 

"  I  'm  running  away,  —  Uncle  Tom  and  Aunt  Chloe,  —  car 
rying  off  my  child,  —  Master  sold  him  !  " 

"  Sold  him  ?  "  echoed  both,  lifting  up  their  hands  in  dismay. 

"  Yes,  sold  him  !  "  said  Eliza,  firmly  ;  "  I  crept  into  the  closet 
by  Mistress's  door  to-night,  and  I  heard  Master  tell  Missis  that 
he  had  sold  my  Harry,  and  you,  Uncle  Tom,  both,  to  a  trader ; 
and  that  he  was  going  off  this  morning  on  his  horse,  and  that 
the  man  was  to  take  possession  to-day." 

Tom  had  stood,  during  this  speech,  with  his  hands  raised,  and 
his  eyes  dilated,  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  Slowly  and  gradually, 
as  its  meaning  came  over  him,  he  collapsed,  rather  than  seated 
himself,  on  his  old  chair,  and  sunk  his  head  down  upon  his 
knees. 

"  The  good  Lord  have  pity  on  us !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe.  "  Oh, 
it  don't  seem  as  if  it  was  true  !  What  has  he  done,  that  Mas'r 
should  sell  him  ?  " 

"  He  has  n't  done  anything,  — it  isn't  for  that.  Master  don't 
want  to  sell;  and  Missis,  —  she's  always  good.  I  heard  her 
plead  and  beg  for  us  ;  but  he  told  her  't  was  no  use  ;  that  he 
was  in  this  man's  debt,  and  that  this  man  had  got  the  power 
over  him ;  and  that  if  he  did  n't  pay  him  off  clear,  it  would  end 
in  his  having  to  sell  the  place  and  all  the  people,  and  move  off. 
Yes,  I  heard  him  say  there  was  no  choice  between  selling  these 
two  and  selling  all,  the  man  was  driving  him  so  hard.  Master 
said  he  was  sorry  ;  but  oh,  Missis,  —  you  ought  to  have  heard 
her  talk  !  If  she  an't  a  Christian  and  an  angel,  there  never  was 
one.  I  'm  a  wicked  girl  to  leave  her  so  ;  but,  then,  I  can't  help 
it.  She  said,  herself,  one  soul  was  worth  more  than  the  world  ; 
and  this  boy  has  a  soul,  and  if  I  let  him  be  carried  off,  who 
knows  what  '11  become  of  it  ?  It  must  be  right ;  but,  if  it  an't 
tight,  the  Lord  forgive  me,  for  I  can't  help  doing  it !  " 

"  Well,  old  man  !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  "  why  don't  you  go,  too? 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  43 

Will  you  wait  to  be  toted  down  river,  where  they  kill  niggers 
with  hard  work  and  starving  ?  I  'd  a  heap  rather  die  than  go 
there,  any  day  !  There  's  time  for  ye,  —  be  off  with  Lizy,  — 
you  've  got  a  pass  to  come  and  go  any  time.  Come,  bustle  up, 
and  I  '11  get  your  things  together." 

Tom  slowly  raised  his  head,  and  looked  sorrowfully  but 
quietly  around,  and  said,  — 

"  No,  no,  —  I  an't  going.  Let  Eliza  go,  —  it 's  her  right !  I 
would  n't  be  the  one  to  say  no,  —  't  an't  in  natur  for  her  to 
stay  ;  but  you  heard  what  she  said  !  If  I  must  be  sold,  or  all 
the  people  on  the  place,  and  everything  go  to  rack,  why.  let  me 
be  sold.  I  s'pose  I  can  b'ar  it  as  well  as  any  on  'em,"  he  added, 
while  something  like  a  sob  and  a  sigh  shook  his  broad,  rough 
chest  convulsively.  "  Mas'r  always  found  me  on  the  spot,  —  ho 
always  will.  I  never  have  broke  trust,  nor  used  my  pass  no 
ways  contrary  to  my  word,  and  I  never  will.  It 's  better  for 
me  alone  to  go,  than  to  break  up  the  place  and  sell  all.  Mas'r 
an't  to  blame,  Chloe,  and  he  '11  take  care  of  you  and  the 
poor  "  — 

Here  he  turned  to  the  rough  trundle-bed  full  of  little  woolly 
heads,  and  broke  fairly  down.  He  leaned  over  the  back  of  the 
chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  large  hands.  Sobs,  heavy, 
hoarse,  and  loud,  shook  the  chair,  and  great  tears  fell  through 
his  fingers  on  the  floor :  just  such  tears,  sir,  as  you  dropped  into 
the  coffin  where  lay  your  first-born  son  ;  such  tears,  woman,  as 
you  shed  when  you  heard  the  cries  of  your  dying  babe.  For, 
sir,  he  was  a  man,  —  and  you  are  but  another  man.  And, 
woman,  though  dressed  in  silk  and  jewels,  you  are  but  a  woman, 
and,  in  life's  great  straits  and  mighty  griefs,  ye  feel  but  one  sor 
row  ! 

"  And  now,"  said  Eliza,  as  she  stood  in  the  door,  "  I  saw  my 
husband  only  this  afternoon,  and  I  little  knew  then  what  was  to 
come.  They  have  pushed  him  to  the  very  last  standing-place, 
and  he  told  me,  to-day,  that  he  was  going  to  run  away.  Do  try, 
if  you  can,  to  get  word  ':o  him.  Tell  him  how  I  went,  and  why 
I  went ;  and  tell  him  I  'm  going  to  try  and  find  Canada.  You 
must  give  my  love  to  him,  and  tell  him,  if  I  never  see  him 
again,"  —  she  turned  away,  and  stood  with  her  back  to  them  for 
a  moment,  and  then  added,  in  a  husky  voice,  "  tell  him  to  be  as 


44  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

good  as  he  can,  and  try  and  meet  me  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven." 

"  Call  Bruno  in  there,"  she  added.  "  Shut  the  door  on  him, 
poor  beast !  He  must  n't  go  with  me  !  " 

A  few  last  words  and  tears,  a  few  simple  adieus  and  bless 
ings,  and,  clasping  her  wondering  and  affrighted  child  u>  her 
arms,  she  glided  noiselessly  away 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLYr  46 


CHAPTER   VI. 

DISCOVERY. 

MR.  and  Mrs.  Shelby,  after  their  protracted  discussion  of  the 
night  before,  did  not  readily  sink  to  repose,  and,  in  consequence, 
slept  somewhat  later  than  usual  the  ensuing  morning. 

"  I  wonder  what  keeps  Eliza,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  after  giving 
her  bell  repeated  pulls,  to  no  purpose. 

Mr.  Shelby  was  standing  before  his  dressing-glass,  sharpen 
ing  his  razor ;  and  just  then  the  door  opened,  and  a  colored  boy 
entered,  with  his  shaving-water. 

"  Andy,"  said  his  mistress,  "  step  to  Eliza's  door,  and  tell  her 
I  have  rung  for  her  three  times.  Poor  thing !  "  she  added  to 
herself,  with  a  sigh. 

Andy  soon  returned,  with  eyes  very  wide  in  astonishment. 

"  Lor,  Missis  !  Lizy's  drawers  is  all  open,  and  her  things  all 
lying  every  which  way ;  and  I  believe  she  's  just  done  clared 
out!" 

The  truth  flashed  upon  Mr.  Shelby  and  his  wife  at  the  same 
moment.  He  exclaimed,  — 

"  Then  she  suspected  it,  and  she  's  off !  " 

"  The  Lord  be  thanked ! "  said  Mrs.  Shelby.     "  I  trust  she  is." 

"  Wife,  you  talk  like  a  fool !  Really,  it  will  be  something 
pretty  awkward  for  me,  if  she  is.  Haley  saw  that  I  hesitated 
about  selling  this  child,  and  he  '11  think  I  connived  at  it,  to 
get  him  out  of  the  way.  It  touches  my  honor !  "  And  Mr. 
Shelby  left  the  room  hastily. 

There  was  great  running  and  ejaculating,  and  opening  and 
shutting  of  doors,  and  appearance  of  faces  in  all  shades  of  color 
in  different  places,  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  One  person 
only,  who  might  have  shed  some  light  on  the  matter,  was 
entirely  silent,  and  that  was  the  head  cook,  Aunt  Chloe. 
Silently,  and  with  a  heavy  cloud  settled  down  over  her  once 


46  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

joyous  face,  she  proceeded  making  out  her  breakfast  biscuits, 
as  if  she  heard  and  saw  nothing  of  the  excitement  around  her. 

Very  soon,  about  a  dozen  young  imps  were  roosting,  like  «> 
many  crows,  on  the  veranda  railings,  each  one  determined  *« 
be  the  first  one  to  apprise  the  strange  Mas'r  of  his  ill  luck. 
"  He  '11  be  rael  mad,  I  '11  be  bound,"  said  Andy. 
"  Won't  he  swar !  "  said  little  black  Jake. 
"Yes,  for  he  does  swar,"  said  woolly-headed  Mandy.     "I 
hearn  him  yesterday,  at  dinner.     I  hearn   all  about  it  then, 
'cause  I  got  into  the  closet  where  Missis  keeps  the  great  jugs, 
and  I  hearn  every  word."     And  Mandy,  who  had  never  in  her 
life  thought  of  the  meaning  of  a  word  she  had  heard,  more 
than  a  black  cat,  now  took  airs  of  superior  wisdom,  and  strutted 
about,  forgetting  to  state  that,  though  actually  coiled  up  amoii£ 
the  jugs  at  the  time  specified,  she  had  been  fast  asleep  all  the 
time. 

When,  at  last,  Haley  appeared,  booted  and  spurred,  he  was 
saluted  with  the  bad  tidings  on  every  hand.  The  young  imps 
on  the  veranda  were  not  disappointed  in  their  hope  of  hearing 
him  "  swar,"  which  he  did  with  a  fluency  and  fervency  which 
delighted  them  all  amazingly,  as  they  ducked  and  dodged  hither 
and  thither,  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  his  riding-whip ;  and,  all 
whooping  off  together,  they  tumbled,  in  a  pile  of  immeasurable 
giggle,  on  the  withered  turf  under  the  veranda,  where  they 
kicked  up  their  heels  and  shouted  to  their  full  satisfaction. 

"  If  I  had  the  little  devils !  "  muttered  Haley,  between  his 
teeth. 

"  But  you  han't  got  'em,  though !  "  said  Andy,  with  a  tri 
umphant  flourish,  and  making  a  string  of  indescribable  mouths 
at  the  unfortunate  trader's  back,  when  he  was  fairly  beyond 
hearing. 

"  I  say  now,  Shelby,  this  yer  's  a  most  extro'rnary  business ! >r 
said  Haley,  as  he  abruptly  entered  the  parlor.  "  It  seems  that 
gal 's  off,  with  her  young  un." 

"  Mr.  Haley,  Mrs.  Shelby  is  present,"  said  Mr.  Shelby. 
"  I  beg  pardon  ma  'am,"  said  Haley,  bowing  slightly,  with 
a  still  lowering  brow;  "but  still  I  say,  as  I  said  before,  this 
yer  's  a  sing'lar  report.     Is  it  true,  sir  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  "  if  you  wish  to  communicate  with 


LIFE  AMONG    THE  LOWLY.  47 

me,  you  must  observe  something  of  the  decorum  of  a  gentleman. 
Andy,  take  Mr.  Haley's  hat  and  riding-whip.  Take  a  seat,  sir. 
Yes,  sir ;  I  regret  to  say  that  the  young  woman,  excited  by 
overhearing,  or  having  reported  to  her,  something  of  this  busi 
ness,  has  taken  her  child  in  the  night,  and  made  off." 

"  I  did  expect  fair  dealing  in  this  matter,  I  confess,"  said 
Haley. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  turning  sharply  round  upon 
him,  "  what  am  I  to  understand  by  that  remark  ?  If  any  man 
calls  my  honor  in  question,  I  have  but  one  answer  for  him." 

The  trader  cowered  at  this,  and  in  a  somewhat  lower  tone 
said  that  "it  was  plaguy  hard  on  a  fellow,  that  had  made  a 
fair  bargain,  to  be  gulled  that  way." 

"  Mr.  Haley,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  "  if  I  did  not  think  you  had 
some  cause  for  disappointment,  I  should  not  have  borne  from 
you  the  rude  and  unceremonious  style  of  your  entrance  into 
my  parlor  this  morning.  I  say  thus  much,  however,  since 
appearances  call  for  it,  that  I  shall  allow  of  no  insinuations 
cast  upon  me,  as  if  I  were  at  all  partner  to  any  unfairness  in 
this  matter.  Moreover,  I  shall  feel  bound  to  give  you  every 
assistance,  in  the  use  of  horses,  servants,  etc.,  in  the  recovery 
of  your  property.  So,  in  short,  Haley,"  said  he,  suddenly 
dropping  from  the  tone  of  dignified  coolness  to  his  ordinary 
one  of  easy  frankness,  "  the  best  way  for  you  is  to  keep  good- 
natured  and  eat  some  breakfast,  and  we  will  then  see  what  is 
to  be  done." 

Mrs.  Shelby  now  rose,  and  said  her  engagements  would  pre 
vent  her  being  at  the  breakfast-table  that  morning;  and,  de 
puting  a  very  respectable  mulatto  woman  to  attend  to  the 
gentlemen's  coffee  at  the  sideboard,  she  left  the  room. 

"  Old  lady  don't  like  your  humble  servant,  over  and  above," 
said  Haley,  with  an  uneasy  effort  to  be  very  familiar. 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  hear  my  wife  spoken  of  with  such 
freedom,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  dryly. 

"Beg pardon ;  of  course,  only  a  joke,  you  know,"  said  Haley, 
forcing  a  laugh. 

"  Some  jokes  are  less  agreeable  than  others,"  rejoined  Shelby. 

"  Devilish  free,  now  I  've  signed  those  papers,  cuss  him ! " 
muttered  Haley  to  himself  ;  "  quite  grand,  since  yesterday  !  " 


48  UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN  ;   OR, 

Never  did  fall  of  any  prime  minister  at  court  occasion  wider 
surges  of  sensation  than  the  report  of  Tom's  fate  among  his 
compeers  on  the  place.  It  was  the  topic  in  every  mouth,  every 
where  ;  and  nothing  was  done  in  the  house  or  in  the  field,  but 
to  discuss  its  probable  results.  Eliza's  flight  —  an  unprece 
dented  event  on  the  place  —  was  also  a  great  accessory  in  stim 
ulating  the  general  excitement. 

Black  Sam,  as  he  was  commonly  called,  from  his  being  about 
three  shades  blacker  than  any  other  son  of  ebony  on  the  place, 
was  revolving  the  matter  profoundly  in  aU  its  phases  and  bear 
ings,  with  a  comprehensiveness  of  vision  and  a  strict  lookout  to 
his  own  personal  well-being,  that  would  have  done  credit  to  any 
white  patriot  in  Washington. 

"  It  's  an  ill  wind  dat  blows  nowhar,  —  dat  ar  a  fact,"  said 
Sam,  sententiously,  giving  an  additional  hoist  to  his  pantaloons, 
and  adroitly  substituting  a  long  nail  in  place  of  a  missing  sus- 
pender-butto'n,  with  which  effort  of  mechanical  genius  he  seemed 
highly  delighted. 

"  Yes,  it 's  an  ill  wind  blows  nowhar,"  he  repeated.  "  Now, 
dar,  Tom  's  down,  —  wal,  course  der  's  room  for  some  nigger  to 
be  up,  —  and  why  not  dis  nigger  ?  —  dat 's  de  idee.  Tom,  a 
ridin'  round  de  country,  —  boots  blacked,  —  pass  in  his  pocket, 
—  all  grand  as  Cuffee,  —  who  but  he  ?  Now,  why  should  n't 
Sam  ?  —  dat 's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  Halloo,  Sam,  —  Oh  Sam !  Mas'r  wants  you  to  cotch  Bill  and 
Jerry,"  said  Andy,  cutting  short  Sam's  soliloquy. 

"  High !  what  's  afoot  now,  young  un  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  don't  know,  I  s'pose,  that  Lizy  's  cut  stick,  and 
clared  out,  with  her  young  un  ?  " 

"  You  teach  your  granny  !  "  said  Sam,  with  infinite  contempt ; 
"  knowed  it  a  heap  sight  sooner  than  you  did ;  this  nigger  an't 
so  green,  now  !  " 

"  Well,  anyhow,  Mas'r  wants  Bill  and  Jerry  geared  right  up  ; 
and  you  and  I  's  to  go  with  Mas'r  Haley,  to  look  arter  her." 

"  Good,  now  !  dat 's  de  time  o'  day !  "  said  Sam.  "  It  's  Sam 
dat 's  called  for  in  dese  yer  times.  He  's  de  nigger.  See  if  I 
don't  cotch  her,  now ;  Mas'r  '11  see  what  Sam  can  do  !  " 

"Ah!  but,  Sam,"  said  Andy,  "you'd  better  think  twice ; 
for  Missis  don't  want  her  cotohed,  and  she  '11  be  in  yer  wool " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE    LOWLY.  49 

*'  High !  "  said  Sam,  opening  his  eyes.  "  How  you  know 
dat!" 

"  Heard  her  say  so,  my  own  self,  dis  blessed  mornin',  when 
I  bring  hi  Mas'r's  shaving-water.  She  sent  me  to  see  why  Lizy 
did  n't  come  to  dress  her ;  and  when  I  telled  her  she  was  off, 
she  jest  ris  up,  and  ses  she,  '  The  Lord  be  praised ' ;  and  Mas'r, 
he  seemed  rael  mad,  and  ses  he,  '  Wife,  you  talk  like  a  fooL' 
But  Lor  !  she  '11  bring  him  to  !  I  knows  well  enough  how  that 
'11  be,  —  it 's  allers  best  to  stand  Missis'  side  the  fence,  now  I 
tell  yer." 

Black  Sam,  upon  this,  scratched  his  woolly  pate,  which,  if  it 
did  not  contain  very  profound  wisdom,  still  contained  a  great 
deal  of  a  particular  species  much  in  demand  among  politicians 
of  all  complexions  and  countries,  and  vulgarly  denominated 
"  knowing  which  side  the  bread  is  buttered  "  ;  so,  stopping  with 
grave  consideration,  he  again  gave  a  hitch  to  his  pantaloons, 
which  was  his  regularly  organized  method  of  assisting  his  mental 
perplexities. 

"  Der  an't  no  sayin'  —  never  —  'bout  no  kind  o'  thing  in  dis 
yer  world,"  he  said,  at  last. 

Sam  spoke  like  a  philosopher,  emphasizing  this,  —  as  if  he 
had  had  a  large  experience  in  different  sorts  of  worlds,  and 
therefore  had  come  to  his  conclusions  advisedly. 

"  Now,  sartin  I  'd  a  said  that  Missis  would  a  scoured  the 
varsal  world  after  Lizy,"  added  Sam,  thoughtfully. 

"  So  she  would,"  said  Andy ;  "  but  can't  ye  see  through  a 
ladder,  ye  black  nigger  ?  Missis  don't  want  dis  yer  Mas'r  Haley 
to  get  Lizy's  boy ;  dat 's  de  go  !  " 

"  Hi !  "  said  Sam,  with  an  indescribable  intonation,  known 
only  to  those  who  have  heard  it  among  the  negroes. 

"And  I  11  tell  yer  more  'n  all,"  said  Andy  ;  "  I  spect  you  'd 
better  be  making  tracks  for  dem  bosses,  —  mighty  sudden,  too, 
—  for  I  hearn  Missis  'quirin'  arter  yer,  —  so  you  've  stood 
foolin'  long  enough." 

Sam,  upon  this,  began  to  bestir  himself  in  real  earnest,  and 
after  a  while  appeared,  bearing  down  gloriously  towards  the 
house,  with  Bill  and  Jerry  in  a  full  canter,  and  adroitly  throw- 
irr"  himself  off  before  they  had  any  idea  of  stopping,  he  brought 
*  ngside  of  the  horse-post  like  a  tornado.  Haley's 

4 


50  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

horse,  which  was  a  skittish  young  colt,  winced,  and  bounced, 
and  pulled  hard  at  his  halter. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  "  said  Sam,  "  skeery,  ar  ye  ?  "  and  his  black  visage 
lighted  up  with  a  curious,  mischievous  gleam.  "  I  '11  fix  ye 
now  !  "  said  he. 

There  was  a  large  beech-tree  overshadowing  the  place,  and 
the  small,  sharp,  triangular  beechnuts  lay  scattered  thickly  on 
the  ground.  With  one  of  these  in  his  fingers,  Sam  approached 
the  colt,  stroked  and  patted,  and  seemed  apparently  busy  in 
soothing  his  agitation.  On  pretence  of  adjusting  the  saddle,  he 
adroitly  slipped  under  it  the  sharp  little  nut,  in  such  a  manner 
that  the  least  weight  brought  upon  the  saddle  would  annoy  the 
nervous  sensibilities  of  the  animal,  without  leaving  any  percep 
tible  graz*  or  wound. 

"  Dar !  "  he  said,  rolling  his  eyes  with  an  approving  grin  ; 
:<  me  fix  'em !  " 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Shelby  appeared  on  the  balcony,  beck 
oning  to  him.  Sam  approached  with  as  good  a  determination  to 
pay  court  as  did  ever  suitor  after  a  vacant  place  at  St.  James's 
or  Washington. 

"  Why  have  you  been  loitering  so,  Sam  ?  I  sent  Andy  to  tell 
you  to  hurry." 

"  Lord  bless  you,  Missis  !  "  said  Sam,  "  horses  won't  be  cotched 
all  in  a  minnit ;  they  'd  done  clared  out  way  down  to  the  south 
pasture,  and  the  Lord  knows  whar !  " 

"  Sam,  how  often  must  I  tell  you  not  te  say  *  Lord  bless  you/ 
and  *  The  Lord  knows,'  and  such  things  ?  It 's  wicked." 

"  Oh,  Lord  bless  my  soul !  I  done  forgot,  Missis  !  I  won't 
say  nothing  of  de  sort  no  more." 

"  Why,  Sam,  you  just  have  said  it  again." 

"  Did  I  ?    Oh,  Lord  !    I  mean,  —  I  did  n't  go  fur  to  say  it." 

"  You  must  be  careful,  Sam." 

"  Just  let  me  get  my  breath,  Missis,  and  I  '11  start  fair.  I  '11 
be  berry  careful." 

"  Well,  Sam,  you  are  to  go  with  Mr.  Haley,  to  show  him  the 
road,  and  help  him.  Be  careful  of  the  horses,  Sam  ;  you  know 
Jerry  was  a  little  lame  last  week  ;  don't  ride  them  too  fast ." 

Mrs.  Shelby  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  low  voice,  and  strong 
emphasis. 


LIFE   AMONG    THE  LOWLY.  51 

"  Let  dis  child  alone  for  dat !  "  said  Sam,  rolling  up  his  eyeg 
with  a  volume  of  meaning.  "  Lord  knows  !  Hi !  Did  n't  say 
dat !  "  said  he,  suddenly  catching  his  breath,  with  a  ludicrous 
flourish  of  apprehension,  which  made  his  mistress  laugh,  spite  of 
herself.  "  Yes,  Missis,  I  '11  look  out  for  de  hosses  !  " 

"Now,  Andy,"  said  Sam,  returning  to  his  stand  under  the 
beech-tree,  "  you  see  I  would  n't  be  't  all  surprised  if  dat  ar 
gen'lman's  crittur  should  gib  a  fling,  by  and  by,  when  he  comes 
to  be  a  gettin'  up.  You  know,  Andy,  critturs  will  do  such 
things  "  ;  and  therewith  Sam  poked  Andy  in  the  side,  in  a  highly 
suggestive  manner 

"  Hi !  "  said  Andy,  with  an  air  of  instant  appreciation. 

"  Yes,  you  see,  Andy,  Missis  wants  to  make  time,  —  dat  ar 's 
clar  to  der  most  or'nary  'bserver.  I  jis  make  a  little  for  her. 
Now,  you  see,  get  all  dese  yer  hosses  loose,  caperin'  permiscus 
round  dis  yer  lot  and  down  to  de  wood  dar,  and  I  spec  Mas'r 
won't  be  off  in  a  hurry." 

Andy  grinned. 

"  Yer  see,"  said  Sam,  "  yer  see,  Andy,  if  any  such  thing 
should  happen  as  that  Mas'r  Haley's  horse  should  begin  to  act 
contrary,  and  cut  up,  you  and  I  jist  lets  go  of  our'n  to  help  him, 
and  we  'II  help  him,  —  Oh  yes  !  "  And  Sam  and  Andy  laid 
their  heads  back  on  their  shoulders,  and  broke  into  a  low,  im 
moderate  laugh,  snapping  their  fingers  and  flourishing  their  heels 
with  exquisite  delight.  • 

At  this  instant,  Haley  appeared  on  the  veranda.  Some 
what  mollified  by  certain  cups  of  very  good  coffee,  he  came  out 
smiling  and  talking,  in  tolerably  restored  humor.  Sam  and 
Andy,  clawing  for  certain  fragmentary  palm-leaves,  which  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  considering  as  hats,  flew  to  the  horse-posts, 
to  be  ready  to  "  help  Mas'r." 

Sam's  palm-leaf  had  been  ingeniously  disentangled  from  all 
pretensions  to  braid,  as  respects  its  brim ;  and  the  slivers  start 
ing  apart,  and  standing  upright,  gave  it  a  blazing  air  of  free 
dom  and  defiance,  quite  equal  to  that  of  any  Fejee  chief ;  while 
the  whole  brim  of  Andy's  being  departed  bodily,  he  rapped  the 
crown  on  his  head  with  a  dexterous  thump,  and  looked  about 
well  pleased,  as  if  to  say,  "  Who  says  I  have  n't  got  a  hat !  " 

"  Well,  boys,"  said  Haley,  "  look  alive  now ;  wo  must  lose 
no  time." 


52  UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  Not  a  bit  of  him,  Mas'r !  "  said  Sam,  putting  Haley's  rein 
in  his  hand,  and  holding  his  stirrup,  while  Andy  was  untying 
the  other  two  horses. 

The  instant  Haley  touched  the  saddle,  the  mettlesome  crea 
ture  bounded  from  the  earth  with  a  sudden  spring,  that  threw 
his  master  sprawling,  some  feet  off,  on  the  soft,  dry  turf.  Sam, 
with  frantic  ejaculations,  made  a  dive  at  the  reins,  but  only 
succeeded  in  brushing  the  blazing  palm-leaf  aforenamed  into 
the  horse's  eyes,  which  by  no  means  tended  to  allay  the  confu 
sion  of  his  nerves.  So,  with  great  vehemence,  he  overturned 
Sam,  and  giving  two  or  three  contemptuous  snorts,  flourished 
his  heels  vigorously  in  the  air,  and  was  soon  prancing  away 
towards  the  lower  end  of  the  lawn,  followed  by  Bill  and  Jerry, 
whom  Andy  had  not  failed  to  let  loose,  according  to  contract, 
speeding  them  off  with  various  direful  ejaculations.  And  now 
ensued  a  miscellaneous  scene  of  confusion.  Sam  and  Andy  ran 
and  shouted,  —  dogs  barked  here  and  there,  —  and  Mike,  Mose, 
Mandy,  Fanny,  and  all  the  smaller  specimens  on  the  place, 
both  male  and  female,  raced,  clapped  hands,  whooped,  and 
shouted,  with  outrageous  officiousness  and  untiring  zeal. 

Haley's  horse,  which  was  a  white  one,  and  very  fleet  and 
spirited,  appeared  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene  with 
great  gusto  ;  and  having  for  his  coursing  ground  a  lawn  of 
nearly  half  a  mile  in  extent,  gently  sloping  down  on  every  side 
into  indefinite  woodland,  he  appeared  to  take  infinite  delight 
in  seeing  how  near  he  could  allow  his  pursuers  to  approach 
him,  and  then,  when  within  a  hand's  breadth,  whisk  off  with  a 
start  and  a  snort,  like  a  mischievous  beast  as  he  was,  and  career 
far  down  into  some  alley  of  the  wood-lot.  Nothing  was  fur 
ther  from  Sam's  mind  than  to  have  any  one  of  the  troop  taken 
until  such  season  as  should  seem  to  him  most  befitting,  —  and 
the  exertions  that  he  made  were  certainly  most  heroic.  Like 
the  sword  of  Coeur  de  Lion,  which  always  blazed  in  the  front 
and  thickest  of  the  battle,  Sam's  palm-leaf  was  to  be  seen  every 
where  when  there  was  the  least  danger  that  a  horse  could  be 
caught ;  —  there  he  would  bear  down  full  tilt,  shouting,  "  Now 
for  it !  cotch  him  !  cotch  him  !  "  in  a  way  that  would  set  every 
thing  to  indiscriminate  rout  in  a  moment. 

Haley  ran  up  and  down,  and  cursed  and  swore  and  stamped 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  53 

miscellaneously.  Mr.  Shelby  in  vain  tried  to  shout  directions 
from  the  balcony,  and  Mrs.  Shelby  from  her  chamber  window 
alternately  laughed  and  wondered,  —  not  without  some  inkling 
of  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  confusion. 

At  last,  about  twelve  o'clock,  Sam  appeared  triumphant, 
mounted  on  Jerry,  with  Haley's  horse  by  his  side,  reeking  with 
sweat,  but  with  flashing  eyes  and  dilated  nostrils,  showing  that 
the  spirit  of  freedom  had  not  yet  entirely  subsided. 

"  He  's  cotched!  "  he  exclaimed  triumphantly.  "  If 't  had  n't 
been  for  me,  they  might  a  bust  theirselves,  all  on  'em ;  but  I 
cotched  him ! " 

"  You !  "  growled  Haley,  in  no  amiable  mood.  "  If  it  had  n't 
been  for  you,  this  never  would  have  happened." 

"  Lord  bless  us,  Mas'r,"  said  Sam,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest 
concern,  "  and  me  that  has  been  racin'  and  chasin'  till  the  sweat 
jest  pours  off  me  !  " 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Haley,  "  you  Ve  lost  me  near  three 
hours,  with  your  cursed  nonsense.  Now  let 's  be  off,  and  have 
no  more  fooling." 

"  Why,  Mas'r,"  said  Sam,  in  a  deprecating  tone,  "  I  believe 
you  mean  to  kill  us  all  clar,  horses  and  all.  Here  we  are  all 
jest  ready  to  drop  down,  and  the  critturs  all  in  a  reek  of  sweat. 
Why,  Mas'r  won't  think  of  startin'  on  now  till  after  dinner. 
Mas'r's  hoss  wants  rubben'  down  ;  see  how  he  splashed  hisself ; 
and  Jerry  limps  too  ;  don't  think  Missis  would  be  willin'  to 
have  us  start  dis  yer  way,  no  how.  Lord  bless  you,  Mas'r,  we 
can  ketch  up,  if  we  do  stop.  Lizy  never  was  no  great  of  a 
walker." 

Mrs.  Shelby,  who,  greatly  to  her  amusement,  had  overheard 
this  conversation  from  the  veranda,  now  resolved  to  do  her 
part.  She  came  forward,  and,  courteously  expressing  her  con 
cern  for  Haley's  accident,  pressed  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  saying 
that  the  cook  should  bring  it  on  the  table  immediately. 

Thus,  all  things  considered,  Haley,  with  rather  an  equivocal 
grace,  proceeded  to  the  parlor,  while  Sam,  rolling  his  eyes  after 
him  with  unutterable  meaning,  proceeded  gravely  with  the 
horses  to  the  stable-yard. 

"  Did  yer  see  him,  Andy  ?  did  yer  see  him  ?  "  said  Sam, 
when  he  had  got  fairly  beyond  the  shelter  of  the  barn,  and 


54  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

fastened  the  horse  to  a  post.  "  Oh,  Lor,  if  it  warn't  as  good  as 
a  meetin',  now,  to  see  him  a  dancin'  and  kickin'  and  swarin'  at 
us.  Did  n't  I  hear  him  ?  Swar  away,  ole  fellow  (says  I  to 
myself)  ;  will  yer  have  yer  hoss  now,  or  wait  till  you  cotch 
him?  (says  I.)  Lor,  Andy,  I  think  I  can  see  him  now."  And 
Sam  and  Andy  leaned  up  against  the  barn,  and  laughed  to  their 
hearts'  content. 

"  Yer  oughter  seen  how  mad  he  looked  when  I  brought  the 
hoss  up.  Lord,  he  'd  a  killed  me,  if  he  durs'  to ;  and  there  I 
was  a  standin'  as  innercent  and  as  humble." 

"  Lor,  I  seed  you,"  said  Andy;  " an't  you  an  old  hoss,  Sam !  " 

"Rather  spects  I  am,"  said  Sam;  "did  yer  see  Missis  up 
stars  at  the  winder?  I  seed  her  laughin'." 

"  I  'm  sure,  I  was  racin'  so,  I  did  n't  see  nothing,"  said 
Andy. 

"  Well,  yer  see,"  said  Sam,  proceeding  gravely  to  wash  down 
Haley's  pony,  "  I  'se  'quired  what  ye  may  call  a  habit  o'  bob 
servation,  Andy.  It 's  a  very  'portant  habit,  Andy,  and  I  'com 
mend  yer  to  be  cultivatin'  it,  now  yer  young.  Hist  up  that  hind 
foot,  Andy.  Yer  see,  Andy,  it  's  bobsewation  makes  all  de  dif 
ference  in  niggers.  Did  n't  I  see  which  way  the  wind  blew  dis 
yer  mornin'  ?  Did  n't  I  see  what  Missis  wanted,  though  she 
never  let  en  ?  Dat  ar  's  bobservation,  Andy.  I  spects  it 's 
what  you  may  call  a  faculty.  Faculties  is  different  in  different 
peoples,  but  cultivation  of  'em  goes  a  great  way." 

"  I  guess  if  I  had  n't  helped  your  bobservation  dis  mornin', 
yer  would  i>.'t  have  seen  your  way  so  smart,"  said  Andy. 

"Andy,"  said  Sam,  "you's  a  promism'  child,  der  an't  no 
manner  o'  doubt.  I  think  lots  of  yer,  Andy ;  and  I  don't  feel 
no  ways  ashamed  to  take  iclees  from  you.  We  oughtenter 
overlook  nobody,  Andy,  cause  the  smartest  on  us  gets  tripped 
up  sometimes.  And  so,  Andy,  let 's  go  up  to  the  house  now. 
I  '11  Jw  boun'  Missis  '11  give  us  an  uncommon  good  bite,  dis  yer 
time/' 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  55 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  MOTHER'S  STRUGGLE. 

IT  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  a  human  creature  more  wholly 
desolate  and  forlorn  than  Eliza,  when  she  turned  her  footsteps 
from  Uncle  Tom's  cabin. 

Her  husband's  suffering  and  dangers,  and  the  danger  of  her 
child,  all  blended  in  her  mind,  with  a  confused  and  stunning 
sense  of  the  risk  she  was  running,  in  leaving  the  only  home  she 
had  ever  known,  and  cutting  loose  from  the  protection  of  a 
friend  whom  she  loved  and  revered.  Then  there  was  the  parting 
from  every  familiar  object,  —  the  place  where  she  had  grown 
up,  the  trees  under  which  she  had  played,  the  groves  where  she 
had  walked  many  an  evening  in  happier  days,  by  the  side  of  her 
young  husband,  —  everything,  as  it  lay  in  the  clear,  frosty  star 
light,  seemed  to  speak  reproachfully  to  her,  and  ask  her  whither 
she  could  go  from  a  home  like  that  ? 

.But  stronger  than  all  was  maternal  love,  wrought  into  a  par 
oxysm  of  frenzy  by  the  near  approach  of  a  fearful  danger.  Her 
boy  was  old  enough  to  have  walked  by  her  side,  and,  in  an 
indifferent  case,  she  would  only  have  led  him  by  the  hand  ;  but 
now  the  bare  thought  of  putting  him  out  of  her  arms  made  her 
shudder,  and  she  strained  him  to  her  bosom  with  a  convulsive 
grasp,  as  she  went  rapidly  forward. 

The  frosty  ground  creaked  beneath  her  feet,  and  she  trem= 
bled  at  the  sound  ;  every  quaking  leaf  and  fluttering  shadow 
sent  the  blood  backward  to  her  heart,  and  quickened  her  foot 
steps.  She  wondered  within  herself  at  the  strength  that  seemed 
to  be  come  upon  her ;  for  she  felt  the  weight  of  her  boy  as  if  it 
had  been  a  feather,  and  every  fmtter  of  fear  seemed  to  increase 
the  supernatural  power  that  bore  her  on,  while  from  her  pale 
lips  burst  forth,  in  frequent  ejaculations,  the  prayer  to  a  Friend 
above,  —  "  Lord,  help!  Lord,  save  me  J  " 


56  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

If  it  were  your  Harry,  mother,  or  your  Willie,  that  were 
going  to  be  torn  from  you  by  a  brutal  trader,  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  —  if  you  had  seen  the  man,  and  heard  that  the  papers  were 
signed  and  delivered,  and  you  had  only  from  twelve  o'clock  till 
morning  to  make  good  your  escape,  —  how  fast  could  you  walk  ? 
How  many  miles  could  you  make  in  those  few  brief  hours,  with 
the  darling  at  your  bosom,  —  the  little  sleepy  head  on  your 
shoulder,  —  the  small,  soft  arms  trustingly  holding  on  to  your 
neck  ? 

For  the  child  slept.  At  first,  the  novelty  and  alarm  kept  him 
waking  ;  but  his  mother  so  hurriedly  repressed  every  breath  or 
sound,  and  so  assured  him  that  if  he  were  only  still  she  would 
certainly  save  him,  that  he  clung  quietly  round  her  neck,  only 
asking,  as  he  found  himself  sinking  to  sleep,  — 

"  Mother,  I  don't  need  to  keep  awake,  do  I  ?  " 

"  No,  my  darling  ;  sleep,  if  you  want  to." 

"  But,  mother,  if  I  do  get  asleep,  you  won't  let  him  get  me  ?  " 

"  No !  so  may  God  help  me  !  "  said  his  mother,  with  a  paler 
cheek  and  a  brighter  light  in  her  large,  dark  eyes. 

"  You  're  sure,  an't  you,  mother  ?  " 

"Yes,  sure/"  said  the  mother,  in  a  voice  that  startled  her 
self  ;  for  it  seemed  to  her  to  come  from  a  spirit  within,  that 
was  no  part  of  her  ;  and  the  boy  dropped  his  little  weary  head 
on  her  shoulder  and  was  soon  asleep.  How  the  touch  of  those 
warm  arms,  and  gentle  breathings  that  came  in  her  neck, 
seemed  to  add  fire  and  spirit  to  her  movements.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  strength  poured  into  her  in  electric  streams,  from  every 
gentle  touch  and  movement  of  the  sleeping,  confiding  child. 
Sublime  is  the  dominion  of  the  mind  over  the  body,  that,  for 
a  time,  can  make  flesh  and  nerve  impregnable,  and  string  the 
sinews  like  steel,  so  that  the  weak  become  so  mighty. 

The  boundaries  of  the  farm,  the  grove,  the  wood-lot,  passed 
by  her  dizzily,  as  she  walked  on  ;  and  still  she  went,  leaving 
one  familiar  object  after  another,  slacking  not,  pausing  not,  till 
reddening  daylight  found  her  many  a  long  mile  from  all  traces 
of  any  familiar  objects  upon  t^p  open  highway. 

She  had  often  been,  with  her  mistress,  to  visit  some  connec 
tions,  in  the  little  village  of  T ,  not  far  from  the  Ohio  River, 

and  knew  the  road  well.  To  go  thither,  to  escape  across  the 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  57 

Ohio  River,  were  the  first  hurried  outlines  of  her  plan  of  escape ; 
beyond  that,  she  could  only  hope  in  God. 

When  horses  and  vehicles  began  to  move  along  the  highway, 
with  that  alert  perception  peculiar  to  a  state  of  excitement,  and 
which  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  inspiration,  she  became  aware  that 
her  headlong  pace  and  distracted  air  might  bring  on  her  remark 
and  suspicion.  She  therefore  put  the  boy  on  the  ground,  and, 
adjusting  her  dress  and  bonnet,  she  walked  on  at  as  rapid  a  pace 
as  she  thought  consistent  with  the  preservation  of  appearances. 
In  her  little  bundle  she  had  provided  a  store  of  cakes  and  ap 
ples,  which  she  used  as  expedients  for  quickening  the  speed  of 
the  child,  rolling  the  apple  some  yards  before  them,  when  the 
boy  would  run  with  all  his  might  after  it ;  and  this  ruse,  often 
repeated,  carried  them  over. many  a  half-mile. 

After  a  while,  they  came  to  a  thick  patch  of  woodland, 
through  which  murmured  a  clear  brook.  As  the  child  com 
plained  of  hunger  and  thirst,  she  climbed  over  the  fence  with 
him;  and,  sitting  down  behind  a  large  rock  which  concealed 
them  from  the  road,  she  gave  him  a  breakfast  out  of  her  little 
package.  The  boy  wondered  and  grieved  that  she  could  not 
eat ;  and  when,  putting  his  arms  round  her  neck,  he  tried  to 
wedge  some  of  his  cake  into  her  mouth,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  rising  in  her  throat  would  choke  her. 

"  No,  no,  Harry  darling  !  mother  can't  eat  till  you  are  safe  ! 
We  must  go  on,  —  on,  —  till  we  come  to  the  river  !  "  And  she 
hurried  again  into  the  road,  and  again  constrained  herself  to 
walk  regularly  and  composedly  forward. 

She  was  many  miles  past  any  neighborhood  where  she  was 
personally  known.  If  she  should  chance  to  meet  any  who  knew 
her,  she  reflected  that  the  well-known  kindness  of  the  family 
would  be  of  itself  a  blind  to  suspicion,  as  making  it  an  unlikely 
supposition  that  she  could  be  a  fugitive.  As  she  was  also  so 
white  as  not  to  be  known  as  of  colored  lineage,  without  a  critical 
survey,  and  her  child  was  white  also,  it  was  much  easier  for  her 
to  pass  on  unsuspected. 

On  this  presumption,  she  (Bpped  at  noon  at  a  neat  farm 
house,  to  rest  herself,  and  buy  some  dinner  for  her  child  and 
self ;  for,  as  tke  danger  decreased  with  the  distance,  the  super 
natural  tension  of  the  nervous  system  lessened,  and  she  found 
herself  both  weary  and  hungry.  , 


58  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OK, 

The  good  woman,  kindly  and  gossiping,  seemed  rather  pleased 
than  otherwise  with  having  somebody  come  in  to  talk  with ;  and 
accepted,  without  examination,  Eliza's  statement,  that  she  "  was 
going  on  a  little  piece,  to  spend  a  week  with  her  friends,"  —  all 
which  she  hoped  in  her  heart  might  prove  strictly  true. 

An  hour  before  sunset,  she  entered  the  village  of  T ,  by 

the  Ohio  River,  weary  and  footsore,  but  still  strong  in  heart 
Her  first  glance  was  at  the  river,  which  lay,  like  Jordan,  be 
tween  her  and  the  Canaan  of  liberty  on  the  other  side. 

It  was  now  early  spring,  and  the  river  was  swollen  and  tur- 
bulent ;  great  cakes  of  floating  ice  were  swinging  heavily  to  and 
fro  in  the  turbid  waters.  Owing  to  the  peculiar  form  of  the 
shore  on  the  Kentucky  side,  the  land  bending  far  out  into  the 
water,  the  ice  had  been  lodged  and  detained  in  great  quantities, 
and  the  narrow  channel  which  swept  round  the  bend  was  full 
of  ice,  piled  one  cake  over  another,  thus  forming  a  temporary 
barrier  to  the  descending  ice,  which  lodged,  and  formed  a  great, 
undulating  raft,  filling  up  the  whole  river,  and  extending  almost 
to  the  Kentucky  shore. 

Eliza  stood,  for  a  moment,  contemplating  this  unfavorable 
aspect  of  things,  which  she  saw  at  once  must  prevent  the  usual 
ferry-boat  from  running,  and  then  turned  into  a  small  public 
house  on  the  bank,  to  make  a  few  inquiries. 

The  hostess,  who  was  busy  in  various  fizzing  and  stewing 
operations  over  the  fire,  preparatory  to  the  evening  meal, 
stopped,  with  a  fork  in  her  hand,  as  Eliza's  sweet  and  plaintive 
voice  arrested  her. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Is  n't  there  any  ferry  or  boat,  that  takes  people  over  to 
B ,  now  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  said  the  woman  ;  "  the  boats  has  stopped 
running." 

Eliza's  look  of  dismay  and  disappointment  struck  the  woman, 
and  she  said,  inquiringly,  — 

"  May  be  you  're  wanting  to  get  over  ?  —  anybody  sick  ?  Ye 
seem  mighty  anxious  ?  " 

"  I  've  got  a  child  that 's  very  dangerous,"  said  Eliza.  "  I 
never  heard  of  it  till  last  night,  and  I  've  walked  quite  a  pie&e 
to-day,  in  hopes  to  get  to  the  ferry." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  59 

i(  Well,  now,  that 's  onlucky,"  said  the  woman,  whose  moth 
erly  sympathies  were  much  aroused ;  "I  'm  relly  consarned  for 
ye.  Solomon !  "  she  called,  from  the  window,  towards  a  small 
back  building.  A  man,  in  leather  apron  and  very  dirty  hands, 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"  I  say,  Sol,"  said  the  woman,  "is  that  ar  man  going  to  tote 
them  bar'ls  over  to-night  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  should  try,  if  't  was  any  way  prudent,"  said  the 
man. 

"  There  's  a  man  a  piece  down  here,  that 's  going  over  with 
some  truck  this  evening,  if  he  durs'  to ;  he  11  be  in  here  to  sup 
per  to-night,  so  you  'd  better  set  down  and  wait.  That 's  a 
sweet  little  fellow,"  added  the  woman,  offering  him  a  cake. 

But  the  child,  wholly  exhausted,  cried  with  weariness. 

"  Poor  fellow !  he  is  n't  used  to  walking,  and  I  've  hurried 
him  on  so,"  said  Eliza. 

"  Well,  take  him  into  this  room,"  said  the  woman,  opening 
into  a  small  bedroom,  where  stood  a  comfortable  bed.  Eliza 
laid  the  weary  boy  upon  it,  and  held  his  hands  in  hers  till  he 
was  fast  asleep.  For  her  there  was  no  rest.  As  a  fire  in  her 
bones,  the  thought  of  the  pursuer  urged  her  on  ;  and  she  gazed 
with  longing  eyes  on  the  sullen,  surging  waters  that  lay  between 
her  and  liberty. 

Here  we  must  take  our  leave  of  her  for  the  present,  to  follow 
the  course  of  her  pursuers. 


Though  Mrs.  Shelby  had  promised  that  the  dinner  should  be 
hurried  on  table,  yet  it  was  soon  seen,  as  the  thing  has  often 
been  seen  before,  that  it  required  more  than  one  to  make  a  bar 
gain.  So,  although  the  order  was  fairly  given  out  in  Haley's 
hearing,  and  carried  to  Aunt  Chloe  by  at  least  half  a  dozen 
juvenile  messengers,  that  dignitary  only  gave  certain  very  gruff 
snorts,  and  tosses  of  her  head,  and  went  on  with  every  opera 
tion  in  an  unusually  leisurely  and  circumstantial  manner. 

For  some  singular  reason,  an  impression  seemed  to  reign 
among  the  servants  generally  that  Missis  would  not  be  particu 
larly  disobliged  by  delay  ;  and  it  was  wonderful  what  a  number 


60  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

of  counter  accidents  occurred  constantly,  to  retard  the  course  of 
things.  One  luckless  wight  contrived  to  upset  the  gravy ;  and 
then  gravy  had  to  be  got  up  de  novo,  with  due  care  and  for 
mality,  Aunt  Chloe  watching  and  stirring  with  dogged  preci 
sion,  answering  shortly,  to  all  suggestions  of  haste,  that  she 
"  warn't  a  going  to  have  raw  gravy  on  the  table,  to  help  no 
body's  catchings."  One  tumbled  down  with  the  water,  and  had 
to  go  to  the  spring  for  more  ;  and  another  precipitated  the  but 
ter  into  the  path  of  events ;  and  there  was  from  time  to  time 
giggling  news  brought  into  the  kitchen  that  "  Mas'r  Haley  was 
mighty  oneasy,  and  that  he  could  n't  sit  in  his  cheer  no  ways, 
but  was  walkin'  and  stalkin'  to  the  winders  and  through  the 
porch." 

"  Sarves  him  right !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  indignantly.  "  He  '11 
get  wus  nor  oneasy,  one  of  these  days,  if  he  don't  mend  his 
ways.  His  master  '11  be  sending  for  him,  and  then  see  how 
he  '11  look  !  " 

"  He  '11  go  to  torment,  and  no  mistake,"  said  little  Jake. 

"  He  desarves  it !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  grimly  ;  "  he  's  broke  a 
many,  many,  many  hearts,  —  I  tell  ye  all ! "  she  said,  stopping, 
with  a  fork  uplifted  in  her  hands ;  "  it 's  like  what  Mas'r  George 
reads  in  Ravelations,  —  souls  a  callin'  under  the  altar  !  and  a 
callin'  on  the  Lord  for  vengeance  on  sich  !  —  and  by  and  by  the 
Lord  he  '11  hear  'em,  —  so  he  will !  " 

Aunt  Chloe,  who  was  much  revered  in  the  kitchen,  was  lis 
tened  to  with  open  mouth ;  and,  the  dinner  being  now  fairly 
sent  in,  the  whole  kitchen  was  at  leisure  to  gossip  with  her  and 
to  listen  to  her  remarks. 

"  Sich  '11  be  burnt  up  forever,  and  no  mistake ;  won't  ther  ?  " 
said  Andy. 

"  I  'd  be  glad  to  see  it,  I  '11  be  boun',"  said  little  Jake. 

"  Chil'en  !  "  said  a  voice,  that  made  them  all  start.  It  was 
Uncle  Tom,  who  had  come  in,  and  stood  listening  to  the  conver 
sation  at  the  door. 

"  Chil'en !  "  he  said,  "  I  'm  afeard  you  don't  know  what 
ye  're  sayin'.  Forever  is  a  dre'ful  word,  chil'en  ;  it 's  awful 
to  think  on  't.  You  oughtenter  wish  that  ar  to  any  human 
crittur." 

"We  would  n't  to  anybody  but  the  soul-drivers,"  said  Andy; 
"  nobody  can  help  wishing  it  to  them,  they  's  so  awful  wicked/' 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY. 

"  Don't  natur  herself  kinder  cry  out  on  'em  ?  "  said  Aunt 
Chloe.  "  Don't  dey  tear  der  suckin'  baby  right  off  his  moth 
er's  breast,  and  sell  him,  and  der  little  children  as  is  crying  and 
holding  on  by  her  clothes,  —  don't  dey  pull  'em  off  and  sells 
'em  ?  Don't  dey  tear  wife  and  husband  apart  ?  "  said  Aunt 
Chloe,  beginning  to  cry,  "  when  it 's  jest  takin'  the  very  life  on 
'em  ?  —  and  all  the  while  does  they  feel  one  bit,  —  don't  dey 
drink  and  smoke,  and  take  it  oncommon  easy  ?  Lor',  if  the 
devil  don't  get  them,  what 's  he  good  f  or  ?  "  And  Aunt  Chloe 
covered  her  face  with  her  checked  apron,  and  began  to  sob  in 
good  earnest. 

"  Pray  for  them  that  'spitefully  use  you,  the  gooa  book  says," 
says  Tom. 

"  Pray  for  'em  !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe  ;  "  Lor,  it 's  too  tough  ! 
I  can't  pray  for  'em." 

"  It 's  natur,  Chloe,  and  natur  's  strong,"  said  Tom,  "  but 
the  Lord's  grace  is  stronger  ;  besides,  you  oughter  think  what 
an  awful  state  a  poor  crittur's  soul 's  in  that  11  do  them  ar 
things,  —  you  oughter  thank  God  that  you  an't  like  him, 
Chloe.  I  'm  sure  I  'd  rather  be  sold,  ten  thousand  times  over, 
than  to  have  all  that  ar  poor  crittur  's  got  to  answer  for." 

"  So  'd  I,  a  heap,"  said  Jake.  "  Lor,  should  n't  we  cotch  it, 
Andy  ?  " 

Andy  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  gave  an  acquiescent 
whistle. 

"  I  'm  glad  Mas'r  did  n't  go  off  this  morning,  as  he  looked 
to,"  said  Tom  ;  "  that  ar  hurt  me  more  than  sellin',  it  did. 
Mebbe  it  might  have  been  natural  for  him,  but  't  would  have 
come  desp't  hard  on  me,  as  has  known  him  from  a  baby  ;  but 
I  've  seen  Mas'r,  and  I  begin  ter  feel  sort  o'  reconciled  to  the 
Lord's  will  now.  Mas'r  could  n't  help  hisself ;  he  did  right, 
but  .1  'm  feared  things  will  be  kinder  goin'  to  rack,  when  I  'm 
gone.  Mas'r  can't  be  spected  to  be  a  pryin'  round  everywhar, 
as  I  Ve  done,  a  keepin'  up  all  the  ends.  The  boys  all  means 
well,  but  they  's  powerful  car'less.  That  ar  troubles  me." 

The  bell  here  rang,  and  Tom  was  summoned  to  the  parlor. 

"  Tom,"  said  his  master,  kindly,  "  I  want  you  to  notice  that 
I  give  this  gentleman  bonds  to  forfeit  a  thousand  dollars  if  you 
are  not  on  the  spot  when  he  wants  you  ;  he  's  going  to-day  to 


62  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

look  after  his  other  business,  and  you  can  have  the  day  to  your 
self.  Go  anywhere  you  like,  boy." 

"Thank  you,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom. 

"  And  mind  yerself,"  said  the  trader,  "  and  don't  come  it  over 
your  master  with  any  o'  yer  nigger  tricks  ;  for  I  '11  take  every 
cent  out  of  him,  if  you  an't  thar.  If  he  'd  hear  to  me  he  would 
n't  trust  any  on  ye,  —  slippery  as  eels !  " 

"  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  —  and  he  stood  very  straight,  —  "I  was 
jist  eight  years  old  when  ole  Missis  put  you  into  my  arms,  and 
you  was  n't  a  year  old.  *  Thar,'  says  she,  '  Tom,  that 's  to  be 
your  young  Mas'r  ;  take  good  care  on  him,'  says  she.  And  now 
I  jist  ask  you,  Mas'r,  have  I  ever  broke  word  to  you,  or  gone 
contrary  to  you,  'specially  since  I  was  a  Christian  ?  " 

Mr.  Shelby  was  fairly  overcome,  and  the  tears  rose  to  his 
eyes. 

"  My  good  boy,"  said  he,  "  the  Lord  knows  you  say  but  the 
truth  ;  and  if  I  was  able  to  help  it,  all  the  world  should  n't  buy 
you." 

"  And  sure  as  I  am  a  Christian  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby, 
"  you  shall  be  redeemed  as  soon  as  I  can  any  way  bring  together 
means.  Sir,"  she  said  to  Haley,  "  take  good  account  of  whom 
you  sell  him  to,  and  let  me  know." 

"  Lor,  yes,  for  that  matter,"  said  the  trader,  "  I  may  bring 
him  up  in  a  year,  not  much  the  wuss  for  wear,  and  trade  him 
back." 

"I  '11  trade  with  you  then,  and  make  it  for  your  advantage,"' 
said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  trader,  "  all 's  equal  with  me  ;  li'ves 
trade  'em  up  as  down,  so  I  does  a  good  business.  All  I  want 
is  a  livin',  you  know,  ma'am  ;  that 's  all  any  on  us  wants,  I 
s'pose." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shelby  both  felt  annoyed  and  degraded  %  the 
familiar  impudence  of  the  trader,  and  yet  both  saw  the  absolute 
necessity  of  putting  a  constraint  on  their  feelings.  The  more 
hopelessly  sordid  and  insensible  he  appeared,  the  greater  became 
Mrs.  Shelby's  dread  of  his  succeeding  in  recapturing  Eliza  and 
her  child,  and  of  course  the  greater  her  motive  for  detaining 
him  by  every  female  artifice.  She  therefore  graciously  smiled, 
assented,  chatted  familiarly,  and  did  all  she  could  to  make  time 
oasa  imnerceDtiblv. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  63 

At  two  o'clock  Sam  and  Andy  brought  the  horses  up  to  the 
posts,  apparently  greatly  refreshed  and  invigorated  by  the  scam 
per  of  the  morning. 

Sam  was  there  new  oiled  from  dinner,  with  an  abundance  of 
zealous  and  ready  officiousness.  As  Haley  approached,  he  was 
boasting,  in  flourishing  style,  to  Andy,  of  the  evident  and  emi 
nent  success  of  the  operation,  now  that  he  had  "  farly  come 
to  it." 

"  Your  master,  I  s'pose,  don't  keep  no  dogs,"  said  Haley, 
thoughtfully,  as  he  prepared  to  mount. 

"  Heaps  on  'em,"  said  Sam,  triumphantly ;  "  thar  's  Bruno,  — 
he  's  a  roarer  !  and,  besides  that,  'bout  every  nigger  of  us  keeps 
a  pup  of  some  natur  or  uther." 

"  Poh !  "  said  Haley,  —  and  he  said  something  else,  too,  with 
regard  to  the  said  dogs,  at  which  Sam  muttered,  — 

"  I  don't  see  no  use  cussin'  on  'em,  no  way." 

"  But  your  master  don't  keep  no  dogs  (I  pretty  much  know 
he  don't)  for  trackin'  out  niggers." 

Sam  knew  exactly  what  he  meant,  but  he  kept  on  a  look  of 
earnest  and  desperate  simplicity. 

"  Our  dogs  all  smells  round  consid'able  sharp.  I  spect  they  's 
the  kind,  though  they  han't  never  had  no  practice.  They  'sfar 
dogs,  though,  at  most  anything,  if  you  'd  get  'em  started.  Here, 
Bruno,"  he  called,  whistling  to  the  lumbering  Newfoundland, 
who  came  pitching  tumultuously  toward  them. 

"  You  go  hang !  "  said  Haley,  getting  up.  "  Come,  tumble 
up  now." 

Sam  tumbled  up  accordingly,  dexterously  contriving  to  tickle 
Andy  as  he  did  so,  which  occasioned  Andy  to  split  out  into  a 
laugh,  greatly  to  Haley's  indignation,  who  made  a  cut  at  him 
with  his  riding-whip. 

"  I 's  'stonished  at  yer,  Andy,"  said  Sam,  with  awful  gravity, 
"  This  yer  's  a  seris  bisness,  Andy.  Yer  must  n't  be  a  makin' 
game.  This  yer  an't  no  way  to  help  Mas'r." 

"  I  shall  take  the  straight  road  to  the  river,"  said  Haley, 
decidedly,  after  they  had  come  to  the  boundaries  of  the  estate. 
"  I  know  the  way  of  all  of  'em,  —  they  makes  tracks  for  the  un 
derground." 

"  Sartin,"  said  Sam,  "  dat  's  de  idee,     Mas'r  Haley  hits  de 


64  UNCLE    TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

thing  right  in  de  middle.  Now,  der  's  two  roads  to  de  river,  — 
de  dirt  road  and  der  pike,  —  which  Mas'r  mean  to  take  ?  " 

Andy  looked  up  innocently  at  Sam,  surprised  at  hearing  this 
new  geographical  fact,  but  instantly  confirmed  what  he  said  by 
a  vehement  reiteration. 

"  'Cause,"  said  Sam,  "  I  'd  rather  be  'clined  to  'magine  that 
Lizy  'd  take  de  dirt  road,  bein'  it  's  the  least  travelled." 

Haley,  notwithstanding  that  he  was  a  very  old  bird,  and  nat 
urally  inclined  to  be  suspicious  of  chaff,  was  rather  brought  up 
by  this  view  of  the  case. 

"  If  yer  warn't  both  on  yer  such  cussed  liars,  now  !  "  he  said, 
contemplatively,  as  he  pondered  a  moment. 

The  pensive,  reflective  tone  in  which  this  was  spoken  ap 
peared  to  amuse  Andy  prodigiously,  and  he  drew  a  little  behind, 
and  shook  so  as  apparently  to  run  a  great  risk  of  falling  off  his 
horse,  while  Sam's  face  was  immovably  composed  into  the  most 
doleful  gravity. 

"  Course,"  said  Sam,  "  Mas'r  can  do  as  he  'd  ruther  ;  go  de 
straight  road,  if  Mas'r  thinks  best,  —  it  's  all  one  to  us.  Now, 
when  I  study  'pon  it,  I  think  the  straight  road  de  best,  derid- 


"  She  would  naturally  go  a  lonesome  way,"  said  Hrley,  think 
ing  aloud,  and  not  minding  Sam's  remark. 

"  Dar  an't  no  sayin',"  said  Sam  ;  "  gals  is  pecular  ;  they 
never  does  nothin'  ye  thinks  they  will  ;  mose  gen'lly  the  con- 
trar.  Gals  is  nat'lly  made  contrary  ;  and  so,  if  you  thinks 
they  've  gone  one  road,  it  is  sartin  you  'd  better  go  t'  other, 
and  then  you  '11  be  sure  to  find  'em.  Now,  my  private  'pinion 
is,  Li/y  took  der  dirt  road  ;  so  I  think  we  'd  better  take  de 
straight  one." 

This  profound  generic  view  of  the  female  sex  did  not  seem 
to  dispose  Haley  particularly  to  the  straight  road  ;  and  he  an 
nounced  decidedly  that  he  should  go  the  other,  and  asked  Sam 
when  they  should  come  to  it. 

"A  little  piece  ahead,"  said  Sam,  giving  a  wink  to  Andy 
with  the  eye  which  was  on  Andy's  side  of  the  head  ;  and  he 
added,  gravely,  "  but  I  've  studded  on  de  matter,  and  I  'm  quite 
clar  we  ought  not  to  go  dat  ar  way.  I  nebber  been  over  it  no 
way.  It  's  despit  lonesome,  and  we  might  lose  our  way,  —  - 
whar  we  'd  come  to,  de  Lord  only  knows." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  65 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Haley,  "  I  shall  go  that  way." 

"  Now  I  think  on  't,  I  think  I  hearn  'em  tell  that  dat  ar 
road  was  all  fenced  up  and  down  by  der  creek,  and  thar,  an't 
it,  Andy  ?  " 

Andy  was  n't  certain  ;  he  'd  only  "  hearn  tell "  about  that 
road,  but  never  been  over  it.  In  short,  he  was  strictly  non 
committal. 

Haley,  accustomed  to  strike  the  balance  of  probabilities  be 
tween  lies  of  greater  or  lesser  magnitude,  thought  that  it  lay  in 
favor  of  the  dirt  road  aforesaid.  The  mention  of  the  thing  he 
thought  he  perceived  was  involuntary  on  Sam's  part  at  first, 
and  his  confused  attempts  to  dissuade  him  he  set  down  to  a 
desperate  lying  on  second  thoughts,  as  being  unwilling  to  im 
plicate  Eliza. 

When,  therefore,  Sam  indicated  the  road,  Haley  plunged 
briskly  into  it,  followed  by  Sam  and  Andy. 

Now,  the  road,  in  fact,  was  an  old  one,  that  had  formerly 
been  a  thoroughfare  to  the  river,  but  abandoned  for  many 
years  after  the  laying  of  the  new  pike.  It  was  open  for  about 
an  hour's  ride,  and  after  that  it  was  cut  across  by  various  farms 
and  fences.  Sam  knew  this  fact  perfectly  well,  —  indeed,  the 
road  had  been  so  long  closed  up,  that  Andy  had  never  heard  of 
it.  He  therefore  rode  along  with  an  air  of  dutiful  submission, 
only  groaning  and  vociferating  occasionally  that  't  was  "  desp't 
rough,  and  bad  for  Jerry's  foot." 

"  Now,  I  jest  give  yer  warning,"  said  Haley,  "  I  know  yer ; 
yer  won't  get  me  to  turn  off  this  yer  road,  with  all  yer  fussing 
• —  so  you  shet  up  !  " 

"  Mas'r  will  go  his  own  way !  "  said  Sam,  with  rueful  sub« 
mission,  at  the  same  time  winking  most  portentously  to  Andy? 
*vhose  delight  was  now  very  near  the  explosive  point. 

Sam  was  in  wonderful  spirits,  —  professed  to  keep  a  very 
brisk  lookout,  —  at  one  time  exclaiming  that  he  saw  u  a  gal's 
bonnet"  on  the  top  of  some  distant  eminence,  or  calling  to 
Andy  "  if  that  thar  was  n't  (  Lizy'  down  in  the  hollow  ;  "  al 
ways  making  these  exclamations  in  some  rough  or  craggy  part 
of  the  road,  where  the  sudden  quickening  of  speed  was  a  special 
inconvenience  to  all  parties  concerned,  and  thus  keeping  Haley 
in  a  state  of  constant  commotion. 


66  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

After  riding  about  an  hour  in  this  way,  the  whole  party 
made  a  precipitate  and  tumultuous  descent  into  a  barnyard 
belonging  to  a  large  farming  establishment.  Not  a  soul  was  in 
sight,  all  the  hands  being  employed  in  the  fields ;  but,  as  the 
barn  stood  conspicuously  and  plainly  square  across  the  road,  it 
was  evident  that  their  journey  in  that  direction  had  reached  a 
decided  finale. 

"  Warn't  dat  ar  what  I  telled  Mas'r  ?  "  said  Sam,  with  an  air 
of  injured  innocence.  "  How  does  strange  gentleman  spect  to 
know  more  about  a  country  dan  de  natives  born  and  raised  ?  " 

"  You  rascal !  "  said  Haley,  "  you  knew  all  about  this." 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  yer  I  knoiv'd,  and  yer  would  n't  believe  me  ? 
I  telled  Mas'r  't  was  all  shet  up,  and  fenced  up,  and  I  did  n't 
spect  we  could  get  through,  —  Andy  heard  me." 

It  was  all  too  true  to  be  disputed,  and  the  unlucky  man  had 
to  pooket  his  wrath  with  the  best  grace  he  was  able,  and  all 
three  faced  to  the  right  about,  and  took  up  their  line  of  march 
for  the  highway. 

In  consequence  of  all  the  various  delays,  it  was  about  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  after  Eliza  had  laid  her  child  to  sleep  in 
the  village  tavern  that  the  party  came  riding  into  the  same 
place.  Eliza  was  standing  by  the  window,  looking  out  in 
another  direction,  when  Sam's  quick  eye  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her.  Haley  and  Andy  were  two  yards  behind.  At  this  crisis, 
Sam  contrived  to  have  his  hat  blown  off,  and  uttered  a  loud 
and  characteristic  ejaculation,  which  startled  her  at  once ;  she 
drew  suddenly  back ;  the  whole  train  swept  by  the  window, 
round  to  the  front  door. 

A  thousand  lives  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  that  one 
moment  to  Eliza.  Her  room  opened  by  a  side  door  to  the 
river.  She  caught  her  child,  and  sprang  down  the  steps 
towards  it.  The  trader  caught  a  full  glimpse  of  her,  just  as 
she  was  disappearing  down  the  bank  ;  and  throwing  himself 
from  his  horse,  and  calling  loudly  on  Sam  and  Andy,  he  was 
after  her  like  a  hound  after  a  deer.  In  that  dizzy  moment 
her  feet  to  her  scarce  seemed  to  touch  the  ground,  and  a 
moment  brought  her  to  the  water's  edge.  Right  on  behind 
they  came ;  and,  nerved  with  strength  such  as  God  gives  only 
to  the  desperate,  with  one  wild  cry  and  flying  leap,  she  vaulted 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  67 

aheer  over  the  turbid  current  by  the  shore,  on  to  the  raft  of  ice 
beyond.  It  was  a  desperate  leap,  —  impossible  to  anything 
but  madness  and  despair ;  and  Haley,  Sam,  and  Andy  in 
stinctively  cried  out,  and  lifted  up  their  hands,  as  she  did  it. 

The  huge  green  fragment  of  ice  on  which  she  alighted  pitched 
and  creaked  as  her  weight  came  on  it,  but  she  stayed  there  not 
a  moment.  With  wild  cries  and  desperate  energy  she  leaped 
to  another  and  still  another  cake  ;  —  stumbling,  —  leaping,  — 
slipping,  —  springing  upwards  again  !  Her  shoes  are  gone,  — 
her  stockings  cut  from  her  feet,  —  while  blood  marked  every 
step ;  but  she  saw  nothing,  felt  nothing,  till  dimly,  as  in  a 
dream,  she  saw  the  Ohio  side,  and  a  man  helping  her  up  the 
bank. 

"  Yer  a  brave  gal,  now,  whoever  ye  ar  !  "  said  the  man,  with 
an  oath. 

Eliza  recognized  the  voice  and  face  of  a  man  who  owned  a 
farm  not  far  from  her  old  home. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Symmes  !  —  save  me,  —  do  save  me,  —  do  hide 
me  !  "  said  Eliza. 

"  Why,  what  's  this  ?  "  said  the  man.  "  Why,  if  't  an't  Shel 
by's  gal*! " 

"  My  child  I  —  this  boy  !  —  he  'd  sold  him  !  There  is  his 
Mas'r,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  Kentucky  shore.  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Symmes,  you  've  got  a  little  boy  !  " 

"  So  I  have,"  said  the  man,  as  he  roughly,  but  kindly,  drew 
her  up  the  steep  bank.  "  Besides,  you  're  a  right  brave  gal.  I 
like  grit,  wherever  I  see  it." 

When  they  had  gained  the  top  of  the  bank,  the  man  paused. 
"  I  'd  be  glad  to  do  something  for  ye,"  said  he ;  "  but  then 
there  's  nowhar  I  could  take  ye.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  tell 
ye  to  go  tkar,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  large  white  house  which 
stood  by  itself,  off  the  main  street  of  the  village.  "  Go  thai* ; 
they  're  kind  folks.  Thar  's  no  kind  o'  danger  but  they  '11  help 
you,  —  they  're  up  to  all  that  sort  o'  thing." 

"  The  Lord  bless  you !  "  said  Eliza  earnestly. 

"  No  'casion,  no  'casion  in  the  world,"  said  the  man.  "  What 
I  've  done  's  of  no  'count." 

"  And  oh,  surely,  sir,  you  won't  tell  any  one  !  " 

"  Go  to  thunder,  gal  1     What  do  you  take  a  feller  for  ?     In 


68  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

course  not,"  said  the  man.  "  Come,  now,  go  along  like  a  likely, 
sensible  gal,  as  you  are.  You  've  arnt  your  liberty,  and  you 
shall  have  it,  for  all  me." 

The  woman  folded  her  child  to  her  bosom,  and  walked  firmly 
and  swiftly  away.  The  man  stood  and  looked  after  her. 

"  Shelby,  now,  mebbe  won't  think  this  yer  the  most  neigh 
borly  thing  in  the  world ;  but  what  's  a  feller  to  do  ?  If  he 
catches  one  of  my  gals  in  the  same  fix,  he  's  welcome  to  pay 
back.  Somehow  I  never  could  see  no  kind  o'  crittur  a  strivin' 
and  pantin',  and  trying  to  clar  theirselves,  with  the  dogs  arter 
'em,  and  go  agin  'em.  Besides,  I  don't  see  no  kind  of  'casion 
for  me  to  be  hunter  and  catcher  for  other  folks,  neither." 

So  spoke  this  poor  heathenish  Kentuckian,  who  had  not  been 
instructed  in  his  constitutional  relations,  and  consequently  was 
betrayed  into  acting  in  a  sort  of  Christianized  manner,  which, 
if  he  had  been  better  situated  and  more  enlightened,  he  would 
not  have  been  left  to  do. 

Haley  had  stood  a  perfectly  amazed  spectator  of  the  scene, 
till  Eliza  had  disappeared  up  the  bank,  when  he  turned  a  blank, 
inquiring  look  on  Sam  and  Andy. 

"  That  ar  was  a  tolable  fair  stroke  of  business,"  said  Sam. 

"  The  gal 's  got  seven  devils  in  her,  I  believe  !  "  said  Haley. 
**'  How  like  a  wildcat  she  jumped  !  " 

"  Wai,  now,"  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head,  "  I  hope  Mas'r 
'11  scuse  us  tryin'  dat  ar  road.  Don't  think  I  feel  spry  enough 
for  dat  ar,  no  way !  "  and  Sam  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle. 

"  You  laugh !  "  said  the  trader,  with  a  growl. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  Mas'r,  I  could  n't  help  it,  now,"  said  Sam, 
giving  way  to  the  long  pent-up  delight  of  his  soul.  "  She 
looked  so  curi's  a  leapin'  and  springin'  —  ice  a  crackin'  —  and 
only  to  hear  her,  —  plump  !  ker  chunk  !  ker  splash  !  Spring  ! 
Lord  !  how  she  goes  it !  "  and  Sam  and  Andy  laughed  till  the 
tears  rolled  down  their  cheeks. 

"  I  '11  make  yer  laugh  t'  other  side  yer  mouths !  "  said  the 
trader,  laying  about  their  heads  with  his  riding-whip. 

Both  ducked,  and  ran  shouting  up  the  bank,  and  were  on  their 
horses  before  he  was  up. 

"  Good  evening,  Mas'r  !  "  said  Sam,  with  much  gravity.  "  1 
berry  much  spect  Missis  be  anxious  'bout  Jerry.  Mas'r  Haley 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  69 

won't  want  us  no  longer.  Missis  would  n't  hear  of  our  ridin' 
the  critters  over  Lizy's  bridge  to-night ;  "  and  with  a  facetious 
poke  into  Andy's  ribs,  he  started  off,  followed  by  the  latter,  at 
full  speed,  —  their  shouts  of  laughter  coming  faintly  on  the 
wind. 


70  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OB, 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

ELIZA'S  ESCAPE. 

ELIZA  made  her  desperate  retreat  across  the  river  just  in 
the  dusk  of  twilight.  The  gray  mist  of  evening,  rising  slowly 
from  the  river,  enveloped  her  as  she  disappeared  up  the  bank, 
and  the  swollen  current  and  floundering  masses  of  ice  presented 
a  hopeless  barrier  between  her  and  her  pursuer.  Haley  there 
fore  slowly  and  discontentedly  returned  to  the  little  tavern  to 
ponder  further  what  was  to  be  done.  The  woman  opened  to  him 
ihe  door  of  a  little  parlor,  covered  with  a  rag  carpet,  where 
stood  a  table  with  a  very  shining  black  oil-cloth,  sundry  lank, 
high-backed  wood  chairs,  with  some  plaster  images  in  resplen 
dent  colors  on  the  mantel-shelf,  above  a  very  dimly  smoking 
grate  ;  a  long  hard-wood  settle  extended  its  uneasy  length  by 
the  chimney,  and  here  Haley  sat  him  down  to  meditate  on  the 
instability  of  human  hopes  and  happiness  in  general. 

"  What  did  I  want  with  the  little  cuss,  now,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "  that  I  should  have  got  myself  treed  like  a  coon,  as  I  am. 
this  yer  way  ?  "  and  Haley  relieved  himself  by  repeating  over 
a  not  very  select  litany  of  imprecations  on  himself,  which,  though 
there  was  the  best  possible  reason  to  consider  them  as  true,  we 
shall,  as  a  matter  of  taste,  omit. 

He  was  startled  by  the  loud  and  dissonant  voice  of  a  man 
who  was  apparently  dismounting  at  the  door.  He  hurried  to 
the  window. 

"  By  the  land  !  if  this  yer  an't  the  nearest,  now,  to  what  I  've 
heard  folks  call  Providence,"  said  Hale}^.  "  I  do  b'lieve  that 
ar  's  Tom  Loker." 

Haley  hastened  out.  Standing  by  the  bar,  in  the  corner  of 
the  room,  was  a  brawny,  muscular  man,  full  six  feet  in  height, 
and  broad  in  proportion.  He  was  dressed  in  a  coat  of  buffalo- 
skin,  made  with  the  hair  outward,  which  gave  him  a  shaggy 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  71 

and  fierce  appearance,  perfectly  in  keeping  with  the  whole  air 
of  his  physiognomy.  In  the  head  and  face  every  organ  and 
lineament  expressive  of  brutal  and  unhesitating  violence  was  in 
a  state  of  the  highest  possible  development.  Indeed,  could  our 
readers  fancy  a  bull-dog  come  unto  man's  estate,  and  walking 
about  in  a  hat  and  coat,  they  would  have  no  unapt  idea  of  the 
general  style  and  effect  of  his  physique.  He  was  accompanied 
by  a  travelling  companion,  in  many  respects  an  exact  contrast 
to  himself.  He  was  short  and  slender,  lithe  and  catlike  in  his 
motions,  and  had  a  peering,  mousing  expression  about  his  keen 
black  eyes,  with  which  every  feature  of  his  face  seemed  sharp 
ened  into  sympathy ;  his  thin,  long  nose  ran  out  as  if  it  was 
eager  to  bore  into  the  nature  of  things  in  general ;  his  sleek, 
thin,  black  hair  was  stuck  eagerly  forward,  and  all  his  motions 
and  evolutions  expressed  a  dry,  cautious  acuteness.  The  great 
big  man  poured  out  a  big  tumbler  half  full  of  raw  spirits,  and 
gulped  it  down  without  a  word.  The  little  man  stood  tiptoe, 
and  putting  his  head  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other, 
and  snuffing  considerately  in  the  directions  of  the  various  bottles, 
ordered  at  last  a  mint  julep,  in  a  thin  and  quivering  voice,  and 
with  an  air  of  great  circumspection.  When  poured  out,  he  took 
it  and  looked  at  it  with  a  sharp,  complacent  air,  like  a  man  who 
thinks  he  has  done  about  the  right  thing,  and  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head,  and  proceeded  to  dispose  of  it  in  short  and  well- 
advised  sips. 

"  Wai,  now,  who  'd  a  thought  this  yer  luck  'ad  come  to  me  ? 
Why,  Loker,  how  are  ye  ?  "  said  Haley,  coming  forward,  and 
extending  his  hand  to  the  big  man. 

"The  devil!  "  was  the  civil  reply.  "What  brought  you  here, 
Haley  ?  " 

The  mousing  man,  who  bore  the  name  of  Marks,  instantly 
stopped  his  sipping,  and,  poking  his  head  forward,  looked 
shrewdly  on  the  new  acquaintance,  as  a  cat  sometimes  looks  at 
a  moving  dry  leaf,  or  some  other  possible  object  of  pursuit. 

"  I  say,  Tom,  this  yer  's  the  luckiest  thing  in  the  world. 
I  'm  in  a  devil  of  a  hobble,  and  you  must  help  me  out." 

"Ugh?  aw!  like  enough!"  grunted  his  complacent  acquaint 
ance.  "  A  body  may  be  pretty  sure  of  that,  when  you  're  glad 
to  see  'em ;  something  to  be  made  off  of  'eni.  What 's  the  blow 
now?" 


OR, 

"  You  've  got  a  friend  here  ?  "  said  Haley,  looking  doubtfully 
at  Marks  ;  "  partner,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have.  Here,  Marks  !  here  's  that  ar  feller  that  I 
was  in  with  in  Natchez." 

"  Shall  be  pleased  with  his  acquaintance,"  said  Marks,  thrust 
ing  out  a  long,  thin  hand,  like  a  raven's  claw.  "  Mr.  Haley,  I 
believe  ?  " 

"  The  same,  sir,"  said  Haley.  "  And  now,  gentlemen,  seein' 
as  we  've  met  so  happily,  I  think  I  '11  stand  up  to  a  small  matter 
of  a  treat  in  this  here  parlor.  So,  now,  old  coon,"  said  he  to 
the  man  at  the  bar,  "  get  us  hot  water,  and  sugar,  and  cigars, 
and  plenty  of  the  real  stuff,  and  we  '11  have  a  blow-out." 

Behold,  then,  the  candles  lighted,  the  fire  stimulated  to  the 
burning  point  in  the  grate,  and  our  three  worthies  seated  round 
a  table,  well  spread  with  all  the  accessories  to  good  fellowship 
enumerated  before. 

Haley  began  a  pathetic  recital  of  his  peculiar  troubles. 
Loker  shut  up  his  mouth,  and  listened  to  him  with  gruff  and 
surly  attention.  Marks,  who  was  anxiously  and  with  much 
fidgeting  compounding  a  tumbler  of  punch  to  his  own  peculiar 
taste,  occasionally  looked  up  from  his  employment,  and,  poking 
his  sharp  nose  and  chin  almost  into  Haley's  face,  gave  the  most 
earnest  heed  to  the  whole  narrative.  The  conclusion  of  it  ap 
peared  to  amuse  him  extremely,  for  he  shook  his  shoulders  and 
sides  in  silence,  and  perked  up  his  thin  lips  with  an  air  of  great 
internal  enjoyment. 

"  So,  then,  ye  'r  fairly  sewed  up,  an't  ye  ?  "  he  said  ;  '•  he  ! 
he  !  he  !  It 's  neatly  done,  too." 

"This  yer  young-un  business  makes  lots  of  trouble  in  the 
trade,"  said  Haley,  dolefully. 

"  If  we  could  get  a  breed  of  gals  that  did  n't  care,  now,  for 
their  young  uns,"  said  Marks ;   "  tell  ye,  I  think  't  would  be 
\  'bout  the  greatest  mod'rn  improvement   I  knows   on,"  —  and 
Marks  patronized  his  joke  by  a  quiet  introductory  sniggle. 

"  Jes  so,"  said  Haley  ;  "  I  never  could  n't  see  into  it ;  young 
uns  is  heaps  of  trouble  to  'em ;  one  would  think,  now,  they  'd 
be  glad  to  get  clar  on  'em  ;  but  they  arn't.  And  the  more 
trouble  a  young  un  is,  and  the  more  good  for  nothing,  as  a  gen') 
thing,  the  tighter  they  sticks  to  'em." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  73 

"Wai,  Mr.  Haley,"  said  Marks,  "jest  pass  the  hot  water. 
Yes,  sir ;  you  say  jest  what  I  feel  and  allers  have.  Now,  I 
bought  a  gal  once,  when  I  was  in  the  trade,  —  a  tight,  likely 
wench  she  was,  too,  and  quite  considerable  smart,  —  and  she 
had  a  young  un  that  was  mis'able  sickly  ;  it  had  a  crooked  back, 
or  something  or  other ;  and  I  jest  gin  't  away  to  a  man  that 
thought  he  'd  take  his  chance  raising  on  't,  being  it  did  n't  cost 
nothin' ;  —  never  thought,  yer  know,  of  the  gal's  takin'  on  about 
it,  —  but,  Lord,  yer  oughter  seen  how  she  went  on.  Why, 
re'lly,  she  did  seem  to  me  to  valley  the  child  more  'cause  't  was 
sickly  and  cross,  and  plagued  her ;  and  she  warn't  making 
b'lieve,  neither,  —  cried  about  it,  she  did,  and  lopped  round,  as 
if  she  'd  lost  every  friend  she  had.  It  re'lly  was  droll  to  think 
on  't.  Lord,  there  a'nt  no  end  to  women's  notions." 

"  Wai,  jest  so  with  me,"  said  Haley.  "  Last  summer,  down^ 
on  Red  River,  I  got  a  gal  traded  off  on  me,  with  a  likely  lookin'  y  , 
child  enough,  and  his  eyes  looked  as  bright  as  yourn ;  but,  come 
to  look,  I  found  him  stone  blind.  Fact,  —  he  was  stone  blind. 
Wai,  ye  see,  I  thought  there  warn't  no  harm  in  my  jest  passing 
him  along,  and  not  sayin'  nothin' ;  and  I  'd  got  him  nicely 
swapped  off  for  a  keg  o'  whiskey ;  but  come  to  get  him  away 
from  the  gal,  she  was  jest  like  a  tiger.  So  't  was  before  we 
started,  and  I  had  n't  got  my  gang  chained  up ;  so  what  should 
she  do  but  ups  on  a  cotton-bale,  like  a  cat,  ketches  a  knife 
from  one  of  the  deck  hands,  and,  I  tell  ye,  she  made  all  fly  for 
a  minnit,  till  she  saw  't  warn't  no  use  •,  and  she  jest  turns  round, 
and  pitches  head  first,  young  un  and  all,  into  the  river  —  went 
down  plump,  and  never  ris." 

"  Bah ! "  said  Tom  Loker,  who  had  listened  to  these  stories 
with  ill-repressed  disgust,  —  "  shif 'less,  both  on  ye  !  my  gals 
don't  cut  up  no  such  shines,  I  tell  ye !  " 

"  Indeed !  how  do  you  help  it  ?  "  said  Marks,  briskly. 

"  Help  it  ?  why,  I  buys  a  gal,  and  if  she  's  got  a  young  un  to 
be  sold,  I  jest  walks  up  and  puts  my  fist  to  her  face,  and  says, 
'Look  here,  now,  if  you  give  me  one  word  out  of  your  head, 
I  '11  smash  yer  face  in.  I  won't  hear  one  word,  —  not  the  be- 


74  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

shines  about  it,  or  I  '11  make  ye  wish  ye  'd  never  been  born.'  I 
tell  ye,  they  sees  it  an't  no  play,  when  I  gets  hold.  I  makes 
'em  as  whist  as  fishes ;  and  if  one  on  'em  begins  and  gives  a 
yelp,  why  "  —  and  Mr.  Loker  brought  down  his  fist  with  a 
thump  that  fully  explained  the  hiatus. 

"  That  ar  's  what  ye  may  call  emphasis"  said  Marks,  poking 
Haley  in  the  side,  and  going  into  another  small  giggle.  "  An't 
;  Tom  peculiar  ?  he !  he !  he  !  I  say,  Tom,  I  spect  you  make 
'em  understand,  for  all  niggers'  heads  is  woolly.  They  don't 
never  have  no  doubt  o'  your  meaning,  Tom.  If  you  an't  the 
devil,  Tom,  you  's  his  twin  brother,  I  '11  say  that  for  ye ! " 

Tom  received  the  compliment  with  becoming  modesty,  and 
began  to  look  as  affable  as  was  consistent,  as  John  Bunyan  says, 
"  with  his  doggish  nature." 

Haley,  who  had  been  imbibing  very  freely  of  the  staple  of 
the  evening,  began  to  feel  a  sensible  elevation  and  enlargement 
of  his  moral  faculties,  —  a  phenomenon  not  unusual  with  gentle 
men  of  a  serious  and  reflective  turn,  under  similar  circum 
stances. 

"Wai,  now,  Tom,"  he  said,  "ye  re'lly  is  too  bad,  as  I  al'ays 
have  told  ye ;  ye  know,  Tom,  you  and  I  used  to  talk  over  these 
yer  matters  down  in  Natchez,  and  I  used  to  prove  to  ye  that  we 
made  full  at  much,  and  was  as  well  off  for  this  yer  world,  by 
treatin'  on  'em  well,  besides  keepin'  a  better  chance  for  comin' 
in  the  kingdom  at  last,  when  wust  comes  to  wust,  and  thar  an't 
nothing  else  left  to  get,  ye  know." 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Tom,  "  don't  I  know  ?  —  don't  make  me  too 
sick  with  any  yer  stuff,  —  my  stomach  is  a  leetle  riled  now ;  " 
and  Tom  drank  half  a  glass  of  raw  brandy. 

"  I  say,"  said  Haley,  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  ges 
turing  impressively,  "  I  '11  say  this  now,  I  al'ays  meant  to  drive 
my  trade  so  as  to  make  money  on  't,  fitst  and  foremost,  as  much 
as  any  man ;  but,  then,  trade  an't  everything,  and  money  an't 
everything,  'cause  wre  's  all  got  souls.  I  don't  care,  now,  who 
hears  me  say  it,  —  and  I  think  a  cussed  sight  on  it,  —  so  I  may 
as  well  come  out  with  it.  1  b'lieve  in  religion,  and  one  of  these 
days,  when  I  've  got  matters  tight  and  snug,  I  calculates  to  tend 
to  my  soul  and  them  ar  matters ;  and  so  what 's  the  use  of  doin 
any  more  wickedness  than  's  re'lly  necessary  ?  —  it  don't  seeia 
to  me  it 's  't  all  prudent." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  75 

"Tend  to  yer  soul!"  repeated  Tom,  contemptuously;  "take 
a  bright  lookout  to  find  a  soul  in  you,  —  save  yourself  any  care 
on  that  score.  If  the  devil  sifts  you  through  a  hair  sieve,  he 
won't  find  one." 

"  Why,  Tom,  you  're  cross,"  said  Haley  ;  "  why  can't  ye  take 
it  pleasant,  now,  when  a  feller  's  talking  for  your  good  ?  " 

"  Stop  that  ar  jaw  o'  yourn,  there,"  said  Tom,  gruffly.  "  I 
can  stand  most  any  talk  o'  yourn  but  your  pious  talk,  —  that 
kills  me  right  up.  After  all,  what 's  the  odds  between  me  and 
you  ?  'T  an't  that  you  care  one  bit  more,  or  have  a  bit  more 
feelin',  —  it 's  clean,  sheer,  dog  meanness,  wanting  to  cheat  the 
devil  and  save  your  own  skin ;  don't  I  see  through  it  ?  And 
your  'gettin'  religion,'  as  you  call  it,  arter  all,  is  too  p'isin 
mean  for  any  crittur ;  —  run  up  a  bill  with  the  devil  all  your 
life,  and  then  sneak  out  when  pay-time  comes  !  Bah !  " 

"'  Come,  come,  gentlemen,  I  say ;  this  is  n't  business,"  said 
Marks.  "  There  's  different  ways,  you  know,  of  looking  at  all 
subjects.  Mr.  Haley  is  a  very  nice  man,  no  doubt,  and  has 
his  own  conscience ;  and,  Tom,  you  have  your  ways,  and  very 
good  ones,  too,  Tom ;  but  quarrelling,  you  know,  won't  answer 
no  kind  of  purpose.  Let 's  go  to  business.  Now,  Mr.  Haley, 
what  is  it  ?  —  you  want  us  to  undertake  to  catch  this  yer  gal  ?  " 

"The  gal's  no  matter  of  mine,  —  she's  Shelby's;  it's  only 
the  boy.  I  was  a  fool  for  buying  the  monkey !  " 

"  You  're  generally  a  fool !  "  said  Tom,  gruffly. 

"  Come,  now,  Loker,  none  of  your  huffs,"  said  Marks,  lick 
ing  his  lips ;  "  you  see,  Mr.  Haley  's  a  puttin'  us  in  a  way  of  a 
good  job,  I  reckon  ;  just  hold  still,  —  these  yer  arrangements  is 
my  forte.  This  yer  gal,  Mr.  Haley,  how  is  she  ?  what  is  she  ?  " 

"  Wai !  white  and  handsome,  —  well  brought  up.  I  'd  a  gin 
Shelby  eight  hundred  or  a  thousand,  and  then  made  well  on 
her." 

"  White  and  handsome,  —  well  brought  up  !  "  said  Marks, 
his  sharp  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  all  alive  with  enterprise. 
"  Look  here,  now,  Loker,  a  beautiful  opening.  We  '11  do  a 
business  here  on  our  own  account ;  —  we  does  the  catchin'  ;  the 
boy,  of  course,  goes  to  Mr.  Haley,  —  we  takes  the  gal  to  Or 
leans  to  speculate  on.  An't  it  beautiful  ?  " 

Tom,  whose  great  heavy  mouth  had  stood  ajar  during  this 


76  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

communication,  now  suddenly  snapped  it  together,  as  a  big  dog 
closes  on  a  piece  of  meat,  and  seemed  to  be  digesting  the  idea 
at  his  leisure. 

"  Ye  see,"  said  Marks  to  Haley,  stirring  his  punch  as  he  did 
so,  "  ye  see,  we  has  justices  convenient  at  all  p'ints  along-shore, 
that  does  up  any  little  jobs  in  our  line  quite  reasonable.  Tom, 
he  does  the  knockin'  down  and  that  ar ;  and  I  come  in  all 
dressed  up,  —  shining  boots,  —  everything  first  chop,  when  the 
swearin'  's  to  be  done.  You  oughter  see,  now,"  said  Marks,  in 
a  glow  of  professional  pride,  "  how  I  can  tone  it  off.  One  day 
I  'm  Mr.  Twickem,  from  New  Orleans ;  'nother  day,  I  'm  just 
come  from  my  plantation  on  Pearl  River,  where  I  works  seven 
hundred  niggers ;  then,  again,  I  come  out  a  distant  relation  of 
Henry  Clay,  or  some  old  cock  in  Kentuck.  Talents  is  different, 
you  know.  Now,  Tom  's  a  roarer  when  there  's  any  thumping 
or  fighting  to  be  done  ;  but  at  lying  he  an't  good,  Tom  an't,  — 
ye  see  it  don't  come  natural  to  him  ;  but,  Lord,  if  thar  's  a  feller 
in  the  country  that  can  swear  to  anything  and  everything,  and 
put  in  all  the  circumstances  and  flourishes  with  a  longer  face, 
and  carry  't  through  better  'n  I  can,  why,  I  'd  like  to  see  him, 
that  's  ah1  !  I  b'lieve  my  heart,  I  could  get  along  and  snake 
through,  even  if  justices  were  more  particular  than  they  is. 
Sometimes  I  rather  wish  they  was  more  particular ;  't  would 
be  a  heap  more  relishin'  if  they  was  —  more  fun,  yer  know." 

Tom  Loker,  who,  as  we  have  made  it  appear,  was  a  man  of 
slow  thoughts  and  movements,  here  interrupted  Marks  by  bring 
ing  his  heavy  fist  down  on  the  table,  so  as  to  make  all  ring 
again.  "  It  'II  do  !  "  he  said. 

"  Lord  bless  ye,  Tom,  ye  need  n't  break  all  the  glasses !  " 
said  Marks ;  "  save  your  fist  for  time  o'  need." 

"  But,  gentlemen,  an't  I  to  come  in  for  a  share  of  the  prof 
its  ?  "  said  Haley. 

"  An't  it  enough  we  catch  the  boy  for  ye  ? "  said  Loker. 
"  What  do  ye  want  ?  " 

"  Wai,"  said  Haley,  "  if  I  gives  you  the  job,  it  's  worth  some 
thing,  —  say  ten  per  cent,  on  the  profits,  expenses  paid." 

"  Now,"  said  Loker,  with  a  tremendous  oath,  and  striking 
the  table  with  his  heavy  fist,  "  don't  I  know  you,  Dan  Haley  ? 
Don't  you  think  to  come  it  over  me  !  Suppose  Marks  and  I 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  77 

have  taken  up  the  catchin'  trade,  jest  to  'commodate  gentlemen 
like  you,  and  get  nothin'  for  ourselves  ?  —  Not  by  a  long  chalk  I 
we  '11  have  the  gal  out  and  out,  and  you  keep  quiet,  or,  ye  see, 
we  '11  have  both,  —  what  's  to  hinder  ?  Han't  you  show'd  us 
the  game  ?  It  's  as  free  to  us  as  you,  I  hope.  If  you  or  Shelby 
wants  to  chase  us,  look  where  the  partridges  was  last  year ;  if 
you  find  them  or  us.  you  're  quite  welcome." 

"  Oh,  wal,  certainly,  jest  let  it  go  at  that,"  said  Haley,  alarmed  ; 
"  you  catch  the  boy  for  the  job ;  you  allers  did  trade  far  with 
me,  Tom,  and  was  up  to  yer  word." 

"  Ye  know  that,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  don't  pretend  none  of  your 
snivelling  ways,  but  I  won't  lie  in  my  'counts  with  the  devil 
himself.  What  I  ses  I  'li  do,  I  will  do,  —  you  know  that,  Dan 
Haley." 

"  Jes  so,  jes  so,  —  I  said  so,  Tom,"  said  Haley ;  "  and  if 
you  'd  only  promise  to  have  the  boy  for  me  in  a  week,  at  any 
point  you  '11  name,  that  's  all  1  want." 

"  But  it  an't  all  I  want,  by  a  long  Jump,",  said  Tom.  "  Ye 
don't  think  I  did  business  with  you,  down  in  Natchez,  for 
nothing,  Haley ;  I  've  learned  to  hold  an  eel,  when  I  catch  him. 
You  've  got  to  fork  over  fifty  dollars,  flat  down,  or  this  child 
don't  start  a  peg.  I  know  yer." 

"  Why,  when  you  have  a  job  in  hand  which  may  bring  a  clean 
profit  of  somewhere  about  a  thousand  or  sixteen  hundred,  why, 
Tom,  you  're  onreasonable,"  said  Haley. 

"  Yes,  and  has  n't  we  business  booked  for  five  weeks  to  come, 
—  all  we  can  do  ?  And  suppose  we  leaves  all,  and  goes  to 
bushwhacking  round  arter  yer  young  un,  and  finally  does  n't 
catch  the  gal,  —  and  gals  allers  is  the  devil  to  catch,  —  what  's 
then  ?  would  you  pay  us  a  cent,  —  would  you  ?  I  think  I  see 
you  a  doin'  it,  —  ugh  !  No,  no  ;  flap  down  your  fifty.  If  we 
get  the  job,  and  it  pays,  I  '11  hand  it  back  ;  if  we  don't,  it  's  for 
our  trouble,  — that  'sfar,  an't  it,  Marks  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Marks,  with  a  conciliatory  tone  •, 
''  it  's  only  a  retaining  fee,  you  see,  —  he  !  he  !  he  !  —  we  law 
yers,  you  know.  Wal,  we  must  all  keep  good-natured,  —  keep 
easy,  yer  know.  Tom  '11  have  the  boy  for  yer,  anywhere  ye  '11 
name  ;  won't  ye,  Tom  ?  " 

"  If  I  find  the  young  un,  I  'K  bring  him  on  to  Cincinnati^ 


78  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OK, 

and  leave  him  at  Granny  Belcher's,  on  the  landing,"  said 
Loker. 

Marks  had  got  from  his  pocket  a  greasy  pocket-book,  and 
taking  a  long  paper  from  thence,  he  sat  down,  and  fixing  his 
keen  black  eyes  on  it,  began  mumbling  over  its  contents: 
"  Barnes,  —  Shelby  County,  —  boy  Jim,  three  hundred  dollars 
for  him,  dead  or  alive. 

"  Edwards,  —  Dick  and  Lucy,  —  man  and  wife,  six  hundred 
dollars ;  wench  Polly  and  two  children,  —  six  hundred  for  her 
or  her  head. 

"  I  'm  jest  runnin'  over  our  business,  to  see  if  we  can  take 
up  this  yer  handily.  Loker,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  we  must 
set  Adams  and  Springer  on  the  track  of  these  yer ;  they  've  been 
booked  some  time." 

"  They  '11  charge  too  much,"  said  Tom. 

"I  11  manage  that  ar ;  they 's  young  in  the  business,  and 
must  spect  to  work  cheap,"  said  Marks,  as  he  continued  to  read. 
"  Ther  's  three  on  'em  easy  cases,  'cause  all  you  've  got  to  do  is 
to  shoot  'em,  or  swear  they  is  shot ;  they  could  n't,  of  course, 
charge  much  for  that.  Them  other  cases,"  he  said,  folding  the 
paper,  "  will  bear  puttin'  off  a  spell.  So  now  let  's  come  to  the 
particulars.  Now,  Mr.  Haley,  you  saw  this  yer  gal  when  she 
landed  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  — plain  as  I  see  you." 

"  And  a  man  helpin'  on  her  up  the  bank  ?  "  said  Loker. 

"  To  be  sure,  I  did." 

"  Most  likely,"  said  Marks,  "  she  ^  took  in  somewhere  ;  but 
where,  's  a  question.  Tom,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  We  must  cross  the  river  to-night,  no  mistake,"  said  Tom. 

"  But  there  's  no  boat  about,"  said  Marks.  "  The  ice  is  run 
ning  awfully,  Tom  ;  an't  it  dangerous  ?  " 

"  Don'no  nothing  'bout  that,  —  only  it  's  got  to  be  done,"  said 
Tom,  decidedly. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Marks,  fidgeting,  "  it  '11  be  —  I  say,"  he 
said,  walking  to  the  window,  "  it  's  dark  as  a  wolf's  mouth, 
and,  Tom  "  — 

"  The  long  and  short  is,  you  're  scared,  Marks ;  but  I  can't 
help  that,  —  you  Ve  got  to  go.  Suppose  you  want  to  lie  by  a 
day  or  two,  till  the  gal  's  been  carried  on  the  underground  line 
up  to  Sanduskv  or  so,  before  vou  start." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  79 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  an't  a  grain  afraid,"  said  Marks,  "  only  "  — 

"  Only  what  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Well,  about  the  boat.     Yer  see  there  an't  any  boat." 

"  I  heard  the  woman  say  there  was  one  coming  along  this 
evening,  and  that  a  man  was  going  to  cross  over  in  it.  Neck  or 
nothing,  we  must  go  with  him,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  s'pose  you  've  got  good  dogs,"  said  Haley. 

"  First  rate,"  said  Marks.  "  But  what  's  the  use  ?  you  han't 
got  nothin'  o'  hers  to  smell  on." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Haley,  triumphantly.  "  Here  's  her 
shawl  she  left  on  the  bed  in  her  hurry;  she  left  her  bonnet, 
too." 

"  That  ar  's  lucky,"  said  Loker ;  "  fork  over." 

"  Though  the  dogs  might  damage  the  gal,  if  they  come  on  her 
unawars,"  said  Haley. 

"  That  ar  's  a  consideration,"  said  Marks.  "  Our  dogs  tore  a 
feller  half  to  pieces,  once,  down  in  Mobile,  'fore  we  could  get 
'em  off." 

"  Well,  ye  see,  for  this  sort  that 's  to  be  sold  for  their  looks, 
that  ar  won't  answer,  ye  see,"  said  Haley. 

"  I  do  see,"  said  Marks.  "  Besides,  if  she  's  got  took  in, 
't  an't  no  go,  neither.  Dogs  is  no  'count  in  these  yer  up  states 
where  these  critturs  gets  carried;  of  course,  ye  can't  get  on 
their  track.  They  only  does  down  in  plantations,  where  nig 
gers,  when  they  runs,  has  to  do  their  own  running,  and  don't 
get  no  help." 

"  Well,"  said  Loker,  who  had  just  stepped  out  to  the  bar  to 
make  some  inquiries,  "  they  say  the  man  's  come  with  the  boat ; 
so,  Marks  "  — 

That  worthy  cast  a  rueful  look  at  the  comfortable  quarters 
he  was  leaving,  but  slowly  rose  to  obey.  After  exchanging  a 
few  words  of  further  arrangement,  Haley,  with  visible  reluc 
tance,  handed  over  the  fifty  dollars  to  Tom,  and  the  worthy  trio 
separated  for  the  night. 

If  any  of  our  refined  and  Christian  readers  object  to  the 
society  into  which  this  scene  introduces  them,  let  us  beg  them 
to  begin  and  conquer  their  prejudices  in  time.  The  catching 
business,  we  beg  to  remind  them,  is  rising  to  the  dignity  of  a 
lawful  and  patriotic  profession.  If  all  the  broad  land  between 


80 


UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 


the  Mississippi  and  the  Pacific  becomes  one  great  market  for 
bodies  and  souls,  and  human  property  retains  the  locomotive 
tendencies  of  this  nineteenth  century,  the  trader  and  catcher 
may  yet  be  among  our  aristocracy. 


While  this  scene  was  going  on  at  the  tavern,  Sam  and  Andy, 
in  a  state  of  high  felicitation,  pursued  their  way  home. 

Sam  was  in  the  highest  possible  feather,  and  expressed  his 
exultation  by  all  sorts  of  supernatural  howls  and  ejaculations, 
by  divers  odd  motions  and  contortions  of  his  whole  system. 
Sometimes  he  would  sit  backward,  with  his  face  to  the  horse's 
tail  and  sides,  and  then,  with  a  whoop  and  a  somerset,  come 
right  side  up  in  his  place  again,  and,  dray/ing  on  a  grave  face, 
begin  to  lecture  Andy  in  high-sounding  tones  for  laughing  and 
playing  the  fool.  Anon,  slapping  his  sides  with  his  arms,  he 
would  burst  forth  in  peals  of  laughter,  that  made  the  old  woods 
ring  as  they  passed.  With  all  these  evolutions,  he  contrived 
to  keep  the  horses  up  to  the  top  of  their  speed,  until,  between 
ten  and  eleven,  their  heels  resounded  on  the  gravel  at  the  end  of 
the  balcony.  Mrs.  Shelby  flew  to  the  railings. 

"  Is  that  you,  Sam  ?     Where  are  they  ?  " 

"  Mas'r  Haley  's  a-restin'  at  the  tavern  ;  he  's  drefful  fatigued, 
Missis." 

"  And  Eliza,  Sam  ?  " 

"  Wai,  she  's  clar  'cross  Jordan.  As  a  body  may  say,  in  the 
land  o'  Canaan." 

"  Why,  Sam,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Shelby  breath 
less,  and  almost  faint,  as  the  possible  meaning  of  these  words 
came  over  her. 

"  Wai,  Missis,  de  Lord  he  presarves  his  own.  Lizy  's  done 
gone  over  the  river  into  'Hio,  as  'markably  as  if  de  Lord  took 
her  over  in  a  charrit  of  fire  and  two  bosses." 

Sam's  vein  of  piety  was  always  uncommonly  fervent  in  his 
mistress's  presence ;  and  he  made  great  capital  of  scriptural 
figures  and  images. 

"  Come  up  here,  Sam,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  who  had  followed 
on  to  the  veranda,  "  and  tell  your  mistress  what  she  wants. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  81 

me,  come,  Emily,"  said  he,  passing  his  arm  round  her,  "  you 
,re  cold  and  all  in  a  shiver;    you  allow  yourself  to  feel  too 
much." 

"  Feel  too  much  !  Am  not  I  a  woman,  —  a  mother  ?  Are  we 
not  both  responsible  to  God  for  this  poor  girl  ?  My  God  !  lay 
not  this  sin  to  our  charge." 

"  What  sin,  Emily  ?  You  see  yourself  that  we  have  only 
done  what  we  were  obliged  to." 

"There's  an  awful  feeling  of  guilt  about  it,  though,"  said 
Mrs.  Shelby.  "  I  can't  reason  it  away." 

"  Here,  Andy,  you  nigger,  be  alive  !  "  called  Sam,  under  the 
veranda  ;  "  take  these  yer  hosses  to  der  barn ;  don't  ye  hear 
Mas'r  a  callin'  ?  "  and  Sam  soon  appeared,  palm-leaf  in  hand,  at 
the  parlor  door. 

"  Now,  Sam,  tell  us  distinctly  how  the  matter  was,"  said  Mr- 
Shelby.  "  Where  is  Eliza,  if  you  know  ?  " 

"  Wai,  Mas'r,  I  saw  her,  with  my  own  eyes,  a  crossin'  on  the 
floatin'  ice.  She  crossed  most  'markably  ;  it  was  n't  no  less  nor 
a  miracle  ;  and  I  saw  a  man  help  her  up  the  'Hio  side,  and  then 
she  was  lost  in  the  dusk." 

u  Sam,  I  think  this  rather  apocryphal,  —  this  miracle.  Cross 
ing  on  floating  ice  is  n't  so  easily  done,"  said  Mr.  Shelby. 

"  Easy  !  could  n't  nobody  a  done  it,  widout  de  Lord.  Why, 
now,"  said  Sam,  "  't  was  jist  dis  yer  way.  Mas'r  Haley,  and 
me,  and  Andy,  we  comes  up  to  de  little  tavern  by  the  river, 
and  I  rides  a  leetle  ahead,  —  (I 's  so  zealous  to  be  a  cotchin' 
Lizy,  that  I  could  n't  hold  in,  no  way),  —  and  when  I  comes 
by  the  tavern  winder,  sure  enough  there  she  was,  right  in  plain 
sight,  and  dey  diggin'  on  behind.  Wai,  I  loses  off  my  hat,  and 
sings  out  nun0  to  raise  the  dead.  Course  Lizy  she  liars,  and  she 
dodges  back,  when  Mas'r  Haley  he  goes  past  the  door  ;  and 
then,  I  tell  ye,  she  clared  out  de  side  door  ;  she  went  down  de 
river  bank  ;  —  Mas'r  Haley  he  seed  her,  and  yelled  out,  and 
him,  and  me,  and  Andy,  we  took  arter.  Down  she  come  tc 
the  river,  and  thar  was  the  current  running  ten  feet  wide  by 
the  shore,  and  over  t'  other  side  ice  a  sawin'  and  a  jiggling  up 
and  down,  kinder  as  't  were  a  great  island.  We  come  right 
behind  her,  and  I  thought  my  soul  he  'd  got  her  sure  enough, 
—  when  she  gin  sich  a  screech  as  I  never  hearn,  and  thar  she 


82  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:   OR, 

was,  clar  over  t'  other  side  the  current,  on  the  ice,  and  then  on 
she  went,  a  screeching  and  a  jumpin'  —  the  ice  went  crack! 
c'wallop !  cracking  !  chunk  !  and  she  a  boundin'  like  a  buck ! 
Lord,  the  spring  that  ar  gal 's  got  in  her  an't  common,  I  'm  o' 
'pinion." 

Mrs.  Shelby  sat  perfectly  silent,  pale  with  excitement,  while 
Sam  told  his  story. 

"  God  be  praised,  she  is  n't  dead  !  "  she  said  ;  "  but  where  is 
the  poor  child  now  ?  " 

"  De  Lord  will  pervide,"  said  Sam,  rolling  up  his  eyes 
piously.  "  As  I  've  been  a  say  in',  dis  yer  's  a  providence  and 
no  mistake,  as  Missis  has  allers  been  a  instructin'  on  us.  Thar  's 
allers  instruments  ris  up  to  do  de  Lord's  will.  Now,  if  't  had 
n't  been  for  me  to-day,  she  'd  a  been  took  a  dozen  times. 
Warn't  it  I  started  off  de  hosses,  dis  yer  mornin',  and  kept  'em 
chasin'  till  nigh  dinner-time  ?  And  did  n't  I  car  Mas'r  Haley 
nigh  five  miles  out  of  de  road,  dis  evening,  or  else  he  'd  a  come 
up  with  Lizy  as  easy  as  a  dog  arter  a  coon  ?  These  yer  's  all 
providences." 

"  They  are  a  kind  of  providences  that  you  '11  have  to  be  pretty 
sparing  of,  Master  Sam.  I  allow  no  such  practices  with  gentle 
men  on  my  place,"  said  Mr.  Shelby,  with  as  much  sternness  as 
he  could  command,  under  the  circumstances. 

Now,  there  is  no  more  use  in  making  believe  be  angry  with 
a  negro  than  with  a  child  ;  both  instinctively  see  the  true  state 
of  the  case,  through  all  attempts  to  affect  the  contrary ;  and 
Sam  was  in  no  wise  disheartened  by  this  rebuke,  though  he  as 
sumed  an  air  of  doleful  gravity,  and  stood  with  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  lowered  in  most  penitential  style. 

"  Mas'r  's  quite  right,  —  quite  ;  it  was  ugly  on  me,  —  there  's 
no  disputin'  that  ar ;  and  of  course  Mas'r  and  Missis  would  n't 
encourage  no  such  works.  I  'm  sensible  of  dat  ar  ;  but  a  poor 
nigger  like  me  's  'mazin'  tempted  to  act  ugly  sometimes,  when 
fellers  will  cut  up  such  shines  as  dat  ar  Mas'r  Haley ;  he  an't 
no  gen'l'man  no  way  ;  anybody  's  been  raised  as  I  've  been  can't 
help  a  seem'  dat  ar." 

"  Well,  Sam,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  "  as  you  appear  to  have  a 
proper  sense  of  your  errors,  you  may  go  now  and  tell  Aunt 
Ghloe  she  may  get  you  some  of  that  cold  ham  that  was  left  oi 
dinner  to-day.  You  and  Andy  must  be  hungry." 


LIFK  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  88 

"  Missis  is  a  heap  too  good  for  us,"  said  Sam,  making  his  bow 
with  alacrity,  and  departing. 

It  will  be  perceived,  as  has  been  before  intimated,  that  Mas 
ter  Sam  had  a  native  talent  that  might,  undoubtedly,  have 
raised  him  to  eminence  in  political  life,  —  a  talent  of  making 
capital  out  of  everything  that  turned  up,  to  be  invested  for 
his  own  especial  praise  and  glory ;  and  having  done  up  his 
piety  and  humility,  as  he  trusted,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
parlor,  he  clapped  his  palm-leaf  on  his  head,  with  a  sort  of 
rakish,  free-and-easy  air,  and  proceeded  to  the  dominions  of 
Aunt  Chloe,  with  the  intention  of  flourishing  largely  in  the 
kitchen. 

"  I  '11  speechify  these  yer  niggers,"  said  Sam  to  himself, 
"  now  1  've  got  a  chance.  Lord,  I  '11  reel  it  off  to  make  'em 
stare !  " 

It  must  be  observed  that  one  of  Sam's  especial  delights  had 
been  to  ride  in  attendance  on  his  master  to  all  kinds  of  political 
gatherings,  where,  roosted  on  some  rail  fence,  or  perched  aloft 
in  some  tree,  he  would  sit  watching  the  orators,  with  the  great 
est  apparent  gusto,  and  then,  descending  among  the  various 
brethren  of  his  own  color,  assembled  on  the  same  errand,  he 
would  edify  and  delight  them  with  the  most  ludicrous  burlesques 
and  imitations,  all  delivered  with  the  most  imperturbable  ear 
nestness  and  solemnity  ;  and  though  the  auditors  immediately 
about  him  were  generally  of  his  own  color,  it  not  unfrequently 
happened  that  they  were  fringed  pretty  deeply  with  those  of  a 
fairer  complexion,  who  listened,  laughing  and  winking,  to  Sam's 
great  self-congratulation.  In  fact,  Sam  considered  oratory  as 
his  vocation,  and  never  let  slip  an  opportunity  of  magnifying 
his  office. 

Now,  between  Sam  and  Aunt  Chloe  there  had  existed,  from 
ancient  times,  a  sort  of  chronic  feud,  or  rather  a  decided  cool 
ness  ;  but,  as  Sam  was  meditating  something  in  the  provision 
department,  as  the  necessary  and  obvious  foundation  of  his 
operations,  he  determined,  on  the  present  occasion,  to  be  emi 
nently  conciliatory ;  for  he  well  knew  that  although  "  Musis' 
orders"  would  undoubtedly  be  followed  to  the  letter,  yet  he 
should  gain  a  considerable  deal  V>y  enlisting  the  spirit  also.  He 
therefore  appeared  before  Aunt  Chloe  with  a  touchingly  sub- 


84  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

dued,  resigned  expression,  like  one  who  has  suffered  immeasur 
able  hardships  in  behalf  of  a  persecuted  fellow-creature,  —  en 
larged  upon  the  fact  that  Missis  had  directed  him  to  come  to 
Aunt  Chloe  for  whatever  might  be  wanting  to  make  up  the  bal 
ance  in  his  solids  and  fluids,  —  and  thus  unequivocally  acknowl 
edged  her  right  and  supremacy  in  the  cooking  department,  and 
all  thereto  pertaining. 

The  thing  took  accordingly.  No  poor,  simple,  virtuous  body- 
was  ever  cajoled  by  the  attentions  of  an  electioneering  politician 
with  more  ease  than  Aunt  Chloe  was  won  over  by  Master 
Sam's  suavities ;  and  if  he  had  been  the  prodigal  son  himself, 
he  could  not  have  been  overwhelmed  with  more  maternal 
bountif ulness ;  and  he  soon  found  himself  seated,  happy  and 
glorious,  over  a  large  tin  pan,  containing  a  sort  of  olla  podrida 
of  all  that  had  appeared  on  the  table  for  two  or  three  days 
past.  Savory  morsels  of  ham,  golden  blocks  or  corn-cake,  frag 
ments  of  pie  of  every  conceivable  mathematical  figure,  chicken 
wings,  gizzards,  and  drumsticks,  all  appeared  in  picturesque 
confusion  ;  and  Sam,  as  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed,  sat  with 
his  palm-leaf  cocked  rejoicingly  to  one  side,  and  patronizing 
Andy  at  his  right  hand. 

The  kitchen  was  full  of  all  his  compeers,  who  had  hurried 
and  crowded  in,  from  the  various  cabins,  to  hear  the  termina 
tion  of  the  day's  exploits.  Now  was  Sam's  hour  of  glory. 
The  story  of  the  day  was  rehearsed,  with  all  kinds  of  ornament 
and  varnishing  which  might  be  necessary  to  heighten  its  effect ; 
for  Sam,  like  some  of  our  fashionable  dilettanti,  never  allowed 
a  story  to  lose  any  of  its  gilding  by  passing  through  his  hands. 
Roars  of  laughter  attended  the  narration,  and  were  taken  up 
and  prolonged  by  all  the  smaller  fry,  who  were  lying,  in  any 
quantity,  about  on  the  floor,  or  perched  in  every  corner.  In 
the  height  of  the  uproar  and  laughter,  Sam,  however,  preserved 
an  immovable  gravity,  only  from  time  to  time  rolling  his  eyes 
up,  and  giving  his  auditors  divers  inexpressibly  droll  glances, 
without  departing  from  the  sententious  elevation  of  his  oratory. 

"  Yer  see,  fellow-countrymen,"  said  Sam,  elevating  a  turkey's 
leg,  with  energy,  "  yer  see,  now,  what  dis  yer  chile  's  up  ter, 
for  'fendin'  yer  all,  —  yes,  all  on  yer.  For  him  as  tries  to  get 
one  o'  our  people,  is  as  good  as  tryin'  to  get  all ;  yer  see  the 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  85 

principle 's  de  same,  —  dat  ar  "s  clar.  And  any  one  o'  these 
yer  drivers  that  comes  smelling  round  arter  any  our  people, 
why,  he  's  got  me  in  his  way  ;  /  'ra  the  feller  he 's  got  to  set  in 
with,  —  I  'm  the  feller  for  yer  all  to  come  to,  bredren,  —  I  '11 
stand  up  for  yer  rights,  —  I  '11  'fend  'em  to  the  last  breath  !  " 

"Why,  but,  Sam,  yer  telled  me,  only  this  mornin',  that 
you  'd  help  this  yer  Mas'r  to  cotch  Lizy  ;  seems  to  me  yer  talk 
don't  hang  together,"  said  Andy. 

"  I  tell  you  now,  Andy,"  said  Sam,  with  awful  superiority, 
<l  don't  yer  be  a  talkin'  'bout  what  yer  don't  know  nothin'  on ; 
boys  like  you,  Andy,  means  well,  but  they  can't  be  spected  to 
collusitate  the  great  principles  of  action." 

Andy  looked  rebuked,  particularly  by  the  hard  word  collusi 
tate,  which  most  of  the  youngerly  members  of  the  company 
seemed  to  consider  as  a  settler  in  the  case,  while  Sam  proceeded. 

"  Dat  ar  was  conscience,  Andy ;  when  I  thought  of  gwine 
arter  Lizy,  I  railly  spected  Mas'r  was  sot  dat  way.  When  I 
found  Missis  was  sot  the  contrar,  dat  ar  was  conscience  more 
yet,  —  'cause  fellers  allers  gets  more  by  stickin'  to  Missis' 
side,  —  so  yer  see  I 's  persistent  either  way,  and  sticks  up  to 
conscience,  and  holds  on  to  principles.  Yes, principles"  said 
Sam,  giving  an  enthusiastic  toss  to  a  chicken's  neck,  —  "  what 's 
principles  good  for,  if  we  is  n't  persistent,  I  wanter  know  ? 
Thar,  Andy,  you  may  have  dat  ar  bone,  —  't  an't  picked  quite 
clean." 

Sam's  audience  hanging  on  his  words  with  open  mouth,  he 
could  not  but  proceed. 

"  Dis  yer  matter  'bout  persistence,  feller-niggers,"  said  Sam, 
with  the  air  of  one  entering  into  an  abstruse  subject,  "  dis  yer 
'sistency  's  a  thing  what  an't  seed  into  very  clar,  by  most  any 
body.  Now,  yer  see,  when  a  feller  stands  up  for  a  thing  one 
day  and  night,  de  contrar  de  next,  folks  ses  (and  nat'rally 
enough  dey  ses),  why  he  an't  persistent  —  hand  me  dat  ar  bit 
o'  corn-cake,  Andy.  But  let 's  look  inter  it.  I  hope  the  gea'l- 
men  and  der  fair  sex  will  scuse  my  usin'  an  or'nary  sort  o' 
'parison.  Here !  I  'm  a  tryin'  to  get  top  o'  der  hay.  Wai,  I 
puts  up  my  larder  dis  yer  side  ;  't  an't  no  go ;  —  den,  'cause 
I  don't  try  dere  no  more,  but  puts  my  larder  right  de  contra* 
side,  an't  I  persistent  ?  I  'm  persistent  in  wantin'  to  get  up 
which  ary  side  my  larder  is  ;  don't  you  see,  all  on  yer  ?  " 


86  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

"  It 's  the  only  thing  ye  ever  was  persistent  in,  Lord  knows !  " 
muttered  Aunt  Chloe,  who  was  getting  rather  restive  ;  the  mer 
riment  of  the  evening  being  to  her  somewhat  after  the  Scrip 
ture  comparison,  — like  "  vinegar  upon  nitre." 

"  Yes,  indeed ! "  said  Sam,  rising,  full  of  supper  and  glory, 
for  a  closing  effort  "  Yes,  my  feller-citizens  and  ladies  of  de 
other  sex  in  general,  I  has  principles,  —  I  'm  proud  to  'oor, 
'em,  —  they  's  perquisite  to  dese  yer  times,  and  ter  all  times. 
I  has  principles,  and  I  sticks  to  'em  like  forty,  — jest  anything 
that  I  thinks  is  principle,  I  goes  in  to  't ;  —  I  would  n't  mind 
if  dey  burnt  me  live,  —  I  'd  walk  right  up  to  de  stake,  I  would, 
and  say,  here  I  comes  to  shed  my  last  blood  fur  my  principles, 
fur  my  country,  fur  der  gen'l  interests  of  s'ciety." 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  "  one  o'  yer  principles  will  have 
to  be  to  get  to  bed  some  time  to-night,  and  not  be  a  keepin' 
everybody  up  till  mornin' ;  now,  every  one  of  you  young  uns 
that  don't  want  to  be  cracked,  had  better  be  scase,  mighty 
sudden." 

"  Niggers  !  all  on  yer/'  said  Sam,  waving  his  palm-leaf  with 
benignity,  "  I  give  yer  my  blessin' ;  go  to  bed  now,  and  be  good 
boys." 

And,  with  this  pathetic  benediction,  the  assembly  dispersed. 


LIFE  AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  87 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN   WHICH   IT   APPEARS    THAT   A  SENATOR    IS   BUT   A   MAN. 

THE  light  of  the  cheerful  fire  shone  on  the  rug  and  carpet  of 
a  cosey  parlor,  and  glittered  on  the  sides  of  the  teacups  and  well- 
brightened  teapot,  as  Senator  Bird  was  drawing  off  his  boots, 
preparatory  to  inserting  his  feet  in  a  pair  of  new,  handsome 
slippers,  which  his  wife  had  been  working  for  him  while  away 
on  his  senatorial  tour.  Mrs.  Bird,  looking  the  very  picture  of 
delight,  was  superintending  the  arrangements  of  the  table,  ever 
and  anon  mingling  admonitory  remarks  to  a  number  of  frolic 
some  juveniles,  who  were  effervescing  in  all  those  modes  of 
untold  gambol  and  mischief  that  have  astonished  mothers  ever 
since  the  flood. 

"  Tom,  let  the  door-knob  alone,  —  there  9a  a  man  !  Mary  ! 
Mary !  don't  pull  the  cat's  tail,  —  poor  pussy  !  Jim,  you 
must  n't  climb  on  that  table,  — no,  no  !  —  You  don't  know,  my 
dear,  what  a  surprise  it  is  to  us  all,  to  see  you  here  to-night !  " 
said  she,  at  last,  when  she  found  a  space  to  say  something  to  her 
husband. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  thought  I  'd  just  make  a  run  down,  spend  the 
night,  and  have  a  little  comfort  at  home.  I  'm  tired  to  death, 
and  my  head  aches  !  " 

Mrs.  Bird  cast  a  glance  at  a  camphor-bottle,  which  stood  in 
the  half-open  closet,  and  appeared  to  meditate  an  approach  to 
it,  but  her  husband  interposed. 

"  No,  no,  Mary,  no  doctoring !  a  cup  of  your  good,  hot  tea, 
and  some  of  our  good,  home  living,  is  what  I  want.  It 's  a  tire 
some  business,  this  legislating  !  " 

And  the  senator  smiled,  as  if  he  rather  liked  the  idea  of  con 
sidering  himself  a  sacrifice  to  his  country. 

"  Well,"  said  his  wife,  after  the  business  of  the  tea-table  was 
getting  rather  slack,  "  and  what  have  they  been  doing  in  the 
Senate  ?  " 


38  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

Now,  it  was  a  very  unusual  thing  for  gentle  little  ft' :  .  Bird 
ever  to  trouble  her  head  with  what  was  going  on  in  th  juse  of 
the  state,  very  wisely  considering  that  she  had  enoi  •••/;  to  do  to 
mind  her  own.  Mr.  Bird,  therefore,  opened  hi'  es  in  sur 
prise,  and  said,  — 

"  Not  very  much  of  importance." 

"  Well ;  but  is  it  true  that  they  have  been  passing  a  law  for 
bidding  people  to  give  meat  and  drink  to  those  poor  colored 
folks  that  come  along  ?  I  heard  they  were  talking  of  some 
such  law,  but  I  did  n't  think  any  Christian  legislature  would 
pass  it !  " 

"  Why,  Mary,  you  are  getting  to  be  a  politician,  all  at  once." 

"  No,  nonsense  !  I  would  n't  give  a  fig  for  all  your  politics, 
generally,  but  I  think  this  is  something  downright  cruel  and  un 
christian.  I  hope,  my  dear,  no  such  law  has  been  passed." 

"  There  has  been  a  law  passed  forbidding  people  to  help  off 
the  slaves  that  come  over  from  Kentucky,  my  dear  ;  so  much  of 
that  thing  has  been  done  by  these  reckless  Abolitionists,  that 
our  brethren  in  Kentucky  are  very  strongly  excited,  and  it 
seems  necessary,  and  no  more  than  Christian  and  land,  that 
something  should  be  done  by  our  state  to  quiet  the  excitement." 

"  And  what  is  the  law  ?  It  don't  forbid  us  to  shelter  these 
poor  creatures  a  night,  does  it,  and  to  give  'em  something  com 
fortable  to  eat,  and  a  few  old  clothes,  and  to  send  them  quietly 
about  their  business  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  my  dear ;  that  would  be  aiding  and  abetting, 
you  know." 

Mrs.  Bird  was  a  timid,  blushing  little  woman,  about  four  feet 
in  height,  and  with  mild  blue  eyes,  and  a  peach-blow  complex 
ion,  and  the  gentlest,  sweetest  voice  in  the  world ;  as  for  cour 
age,  a  moderate-sized  cock-turkey  had  been  known  to  put  her 
to  rout  at  the  very  first  gobble,  and  a  stout  house-dog,  of  moder 
ate  capacity,  would  bring  her  into  subjection  merely  by  a  show 
of  his  teeth.  Her  husband  and  children  were  her  entire  world, 
and  in  these  she  ruled  more  by  entreaty  and  persuasion  than  by 
command  or  argument.  There  was  only  one  thing  that  was  ca 
pable  of  arousing  her,  and  that  .provocation  came  in  on  the  side 
of  her  unusually  gentle  and  sympathetic  nature  ;  —  anything  in 
the  shape  of  cruelty  would  throw  her  into  a  passion,  which  was 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  89 

the  more  alarming  and  inexplicable  in  proportion  to  the  general 
softness  of  her  nature.  Generally  the  most  indulgent  and  easy 
to  be  entreated  of  all  mothers,  still  her  boys  had  a  very  rever 
ent  remembrance  of  a  most  vehement  chastisement  she  once  be 
stowed  on  them,  because  she  found  them  leagued  with  several 
graceless  boys  of  the  neighborhood,  stoning  a  defenceless  kitten. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,"  Master  Bill  used  to  say,  "  I  was  scared 
that  time.  Mother  came  at  me  so  that  I  thought  she  was  crazy, 
and  I  was  whipped  and  tumbled  off  to  bed,  without  any  supper, 
before  I  could  get  over  wondering  what  had  come  about ;  and, 
after  that,  I  heard  mother  crying  outside  the  door,  which  made 
me  feel  worse  than  all  the  rest.  I  '11  tell  you  what,"  he  'd 
say,  "  we  boys  never  stoned  another  kitten  !  " 

On  the  present  occasion,  Mrs.  Bird  rose  quickly,  with  very 
red  cheeks,  which  quite  improved  her  general  appearance,  and 
walked  up  to  her  husband,  with  quite  a  resolute  air,  and  said, 
in  a  determined  tone,  — 

"  Now,  John,  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  such  a  law  as  that 
is  right  and  Christian  ?  " 

"  You  won't  shoot  me,  now,  Mary,  if  I  say  I  do  !  " 

"  I  never  could  have  thought  it  of  you,  John ;  you  did  n't 
vote  for  it  ?  " 

"  Even  so,  my  fair  politician." 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  John  !  Poor,  homeless,  house 
less  creatures  !  It 's  a  shameful,  wicked,  abominable  law,  and  j 
I  '11  break  it,  for  one,  the  first  time  I  get  a  chance ;  and  I  hope 
I  shall  have  a  chance,  I  do  !  Things  have  got  to  a  pretty  pass, 
if  a  woman  can't  give  a  warm  supper  and  a  bed  to  poor,  starv 
ing  creatures,  just  because  they  are  slaves,  and  have  been 
abused  and  oppressed  all  their  lives,  poor  things !  " 

"  But,  Mary,  just  listen  to  me.  Your  feelings  are  all  quite 
right,  dear,  and  interesting,  and  I. love  you  for  them  ;  but,  then, 
dear,  we  must  n't  suffer  our  feelings  to  run  away  with  our  judg 
ment  ;  you  must  consider  it 's  not  a  matter  of  private  feeling,  — 
there  are  great  public  interests  involved,  —  there  is  such  a  state 
of  public  agitation  rising,  that  we  must  put  aside  our  private 
feelings." 

u  Now,  John,  I  don't  know  anything  about  politics,  but  I  can 
tead  my  Bible ;  and  there  I  see  that  I  must  feed  the  hungry, 


90  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

clothe  the  naked,  and  comfort  the  desolate ;  and  that  Bible  1 
mean  to  follow." 

"  But  in  cases  where  your  doing  so  would  involve  a  great 
public  evil "  — 

"  Obeying  God  never  brings  on  public  evils.  I  know  it  can't. 
It 's  always  safest,  all  round,  to  do  as  he  bids  us." 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,  Mary,  and  I  can  state  to  you  a  very  clear 
argument,  to  show  "  — 

44  Oh,  nonsense,  John !  you  can  talk  all  night,  but  you 
would  n't  do  it.  I  put  it  to  you,  John,  —  would  you,  now,  turn 
away  a  poor,  shivering,  hungry  creature  from  your  door,  because 
he  was  a  runaway  ?  Would  you,  now  ?  " 

Now,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  our  senator  had  the  misfor 
tune  to  be  a  man  who  had  a  particularly  humane  and  accessible 
nature,  and  turning  away  anybody  that  was  in  trouble  never 
had  been  his  forte  ;  and  what  was  worse  for  him  in  this  particu 
lar  pinch  of  the  argument  was,  that  his  Mrife  knew  it,  and,  of 
course,  was  making  an  assault  on  rather  an  indefensible  point. 
So  he  had  recourse  to  the  usual  means  of  gaining  time  for  such 
cases  made  and  provided  ;  he  said  "  ahem,"  and  coughed  sev 
eral  times,  took  out  his  pocket  handkerchief,  and  began  to  wipe 
his  glasses.  Mrs.  Bird,  seeing  the  defenceless  condition  of  the 
enemy's  territory,  had  no  more  conscience  than  to  push  her  ad 
vantage. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  doing  that,  John,  —  I  really  should ! 
Turning  a  woman  out  of  doors  in  a  snow-storm,  for  instance  ; 
or,  may  be  you  'd  take  her  up  and  put  her  in  jail,  would  n't 
you  ?  You  would  make  a  great  hand  at  that !  " 

"  Of  course,  it  would  be  a  very  painful  duty,"  began  Mr. 
Bird,  in  a  moderate  tone. 

"  Duty,  John  !  don't  use  that  word !  You  know  it  is  n't  a 
duty,  —  it  can't  be  a  duty  !  If  folks  want  to  keep  their  slaves 
from  running  away,  let  'em  treat  'em  well,  —  that 's  my  doc 
trine.  If  I  had  slaves  (as  I  hope  I  never  shall  have),  I  'd  risk 
their  wanting  to  run  away  from  me,  or  you  either,  John.  I  tell 
you  folks  don't  run  away  when  they  are  happy  ;  and  when  they 
do  run,  poor  creatures !  they  suffer  enough  with  cold  and  hun 
ger  and  fear,  without  everybody's  turning  against  them ;  and! 
law  or  no  law,  I  never  will,  so  help  me  God  !  " 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  91 

"Mary!   Mary!     My  dear,  let  me  reason  with  you." 

"  I  hate  reasoning,  John,  —  especially  reasoning  on  such  sub 
jects.  There  's  a  way  you  political  folks  have  of  coming  round 
and  round  a  plain  right  thing ;  and  you  don't  believe  in  it 
yourselves,  when  it  comes  to  practice.  I  know  you  well  enough, 
John.  You  don't  believe  it 's  right  any  more  than  I  do  ;  and 
you  would  n't  do  it  any  sooner  than  I." 

At  this  critical  juncture,  old  Cudjoe,  the  black  man-of-all 
work,  put  his  head  in  at  the  door,  and  wished  "  Missis  would 
come  into  the  kitchen ;  "  and  our  senator,  tolerably  relieved, 
looked  after  his  little  wife  with  a  whimsical  mixture  of  amuse 
ment  and  vexation,  and,  seating  himself  in  the  arm-chair,  began 
to  read  the  papers. 

After  a  moment,  his  wife's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door,  in  a 
quick,  earnest  tone,  —  "  John  !  John  !  I  do  wish  you  'd  come 
here,  a  moment." 

He  laid  down  his  paper,  and  went  into  the  kitchen,  and 
started,  quite  amazed  at  the  sight  that  presented  itself :  —  A 
young  and  slender  woman,  with  garments  torn  and  frozen,  with 
one  shoe  gone,  and  the  stocking  torn  away  from  the  cut  and 
.bleeding  foot,  was  laid  back  in  a  deadly  swoon  upon  two  chairs. 
There  was  the  impress  of  the  despised  race  on  her  face,  yet  none 
could  help  feeling  its  mournful  and  pathetic  beauty,  while  its 
stony  sharpness,  its  cold,  fixed,  deathly  aspect,  struck  a  solemn 
chill  over  him.  He  drew  his  breath  short,  and  stood  in  silence. 
His  wife,  and  their  only  colored  domestic,  old  Aunt  Dinah, 
were  busily  engaged  in  restorative  measures ;  while  old  Cudjoe 
had  got  the  boy  on  his  knee,  and  was  busy  pulling  off  his  shoes 
and  stockings,  and  chafing  his  little  cold  feet. 

"  Sure,  now,  if  she  an't  a  sight  to  behold  !  "  said  old  Dinah, 
compassionately ;  "  'pears  like  't  was  the  heat  that  made  her 
faint.  She  was  tol'able  peart  when  she  cum  in,  and  asked  if 
she  could  n't  warm  herself  here  a  spell ;  and  I  was  just  a  askin' 
her  where  she  cum  from,  and  she  fainted  right  down.  Never 
done  much  hard  work,  guess,  by  the  looks  of  her  hands." 

"  Poor  creature !  "  said  Mrs.  Bird,  compassionately,  as  the 
woman  slowly  unclosed  her  large,  dark  eyes,  and  looked  va 
cantly  at  her.  Suddenly  an  expression  of  agony  crossed  her 
face,  and  she  sprang  up,  saying,  "  Oh,  my  Harry  !  Have  they 
got  him  ?  " 


92  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

The  boy,  at  this,  jumped  from  Cudjoe's  knee,  and,  running 
to  her  side,  put  up  his  arms.  "  Oh,  he  's  here !  he  's  here  !  " 
she  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  ma'am  !  "  said  she,  wildly,  to  Mrs.  Bird,  "  do  protect 
'is  !  don't  let  them  get  him  !  " 

"  Nobody  shall  hurt  you  here,  poor  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Bird, 
encouragingly.  "  You  are  safe  ;  don't  be  afraid." 

'*  God  bless  you !  "  said  the  woman,  covering  her  face  and 
sobbing ;  while  the  little  boy,  seeing  her  crying,  tried  to  get 
into  her  lap. 

With  many  gentle  and  womanly  offices  which  none  knew 
better  how  to  render  than  Mrs.  Bird,  the  poor  woman  was,  in 
time,  rendered  more  calm.  A  temporary  bed  was  provided  for 
her  on  the  settle,  near  the  fire  ;  and,  after  a  short  time,  she  fell 
into  a  heavy  slumber,  with  the  child,  who  seemed  no  less 
weary,  soundly  sleeping  on  her  arm  ;  for  the  mother  resisted, 
with  nervous  anxiety,  the  kindest  attempts  to  take  him  from 
her  ;  and,  even  in  sleep,  her  arm  encircled  him  with  an  un- 
relaxing  clasp,  as  if  she  could  not  even  then  be  beguiled  of  her 
vigilant  hold. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  had  gone  back  to  the  parlor,  where, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  no  reference  was  made,  on  either  side, 
to  the  preceding  conversation  ;  but  Mrs.  Bird  busied  herself 
with  her  knitting  work,  and  Mr.  Bird  pretended  to  be  reading 
the  paper. 

"  I  wonder  who  and  what  she  is !  "  said  Mr.  Bird,  at  last,  as 
he  laid  it  down. 

"  When  she  wakes  up  and  feels  a  little  rested  we  will  see," 
said  Mrs.  Bird. 

"  I  say,  wife !  "  said  Mr.  Bird,  after  musing  in  silence  over 
his  newspaper. 

«  Well,  dear  !  " 

"  She  could  n't  wear  one  of  your  gowns,  could  she,  by  any 
letting  down,  or  such  matter  ?  She  seems  to  be  rather  larger 
ihan  you  are." 

A  quite  perceptible  smile  glimmered  on  Mrs.  Bird's  face  as 
ihe  answered,  "  We  '11  see." 

Another  pause,  and  Mr.  Bird  again  broke  out,  — 

"  I  say,  wife  1  w 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  93 

"Well!  what  now?" 

"  Why,  there  's  that  old  bombazine  cloak,  that  you  keep  on 
purpose  to  put  over  me  when  I  take  my  afternoon's  nap ;  you 
might  as  well  give  her  that,  —  she  needs  clothes." 

At  this  instant,  Dinah  looked  in  to  say  that  the  woman  was 
awake,  and  wanted  to  see  Missis. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  went  into  the  kitchen,  followed  by  the  two 
eldest  boys,  the  smaller  fry  having,  by  this  time,  been  safely  dis 
posed  of  in  bed. 

The  woman  was  now  sitting  up  on  the  settle,  by  the  fire.  She 
was  looking  steadily  into  the  blaze,  with  a  calm  heart-broken  ex 
pression,  very  different  from  her  former  agitated  wildness. 

"  Did  you  want  me  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Bird,  in  gentle  tones.  "  I 
hope  you  feel  better  now,  poor  woman !  " 

A  long-drawn,  shivering  sigh  was  the  only  answer ;  but  she 
lifted  her  dark  eyes,  and  fixed  them  on  her  with  such  a  forlorn 
and  imploring  expression,  that  the  tears  came  into  the  little  wo 
man's  eyes. 

"  You  need  n't  be  afraid  of  anything ;  we  are  friends  here, 
poor  woman !  Tell  me  where  you  came  from,  and  what  you 
want,"  said  she. 

"  I  came  from  Kentucky,"  said  the  woman. 

"  When  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bird,  taking  up  the  interrogatory. 

"To-night." 

"  How  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  crossed  on  the  ice." 

"  Crossed  on  the  ice  !  "  said  every  one  present. 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  slowly,  "I  did.  God  helping  me, 
I  crossed  on  the  ice ;  for  they  were  behind  me,  —  right  behind, 
—  and  there  was  no  other  way !  " 

"  Law,  Missis,"  said  Cudjoe,  "  the  ice  is  all  in  broken-up 
blocks,  a  swinging  and  a  teetering  up  and  down  in  the  water." 

"  I  know  it  was,  — I  know  it !  "  said  she  wildly  ;  "  but  I  did 
it !  I  would  n't  have  thought  I  could,  —  I  did  n't  think  I  should 
get  over,  but  I  did  n't  care  !  I  could  but  die  if  I  did  n't.  The 
Lord  helped  me ;  nobody  knows  how  much  the  Lord  can  help 
'em,  till  they  try,"  said  the  woman,  with  a  flashing  eye. 

"  Were  you  a  slave  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bird. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  belonged  to  a  man  in  Kentucky." 


94  UNCLE    TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  Was  he  unkind  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  he  was  a  good  master." 

*'  And  was  your  mistress  unkind  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir, —  no  !  my  mistress  was  always  good  to  me." 

"  What  could  induce  you  to  leave  a  good  home,  then,  and  run 
away,  and  go  through  such  dangers  ?  " 

The  woman  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Bird  with  a  keen,  scrutiniz 
ing  glance,  and  it  did  not  escape  her  that  she  was  dressed  in 
deep  mourning. 

"  Ma'am,"  she  said,  suddenly,  u  have  you  ever  lost  a  child  ?  " 

The  question  was  unexpected,  and  it  was  a  thrust  on  a  new 
wound ;  for  it  was  only  a  month  since  a  darling  child  of  the 
family  had  been  laid  in  the  grave. 

Mr.  Bird  turned  around  and  walked  to  the  window,  and  Mrs. 
Bird  burst  into  tears ;  but,  recovering  her  voice,  she  said,  — 

"  Why  do  you  ask  that  ?     I  have  lost  a  little  one." 

"  Then  you  will  feel  for  me.  I  have  lost  two,  one  after 
another,  —  left  'em  buried  there  when  I  came  away  ;  and  I  had 
only  this  one  left.  I  never  slept  a  night  without  him  ;  he  was 
all  I  had.  He  was  my  comfort  and  pride,  day  and  night ;  and, 
ma'am,  they  were  going  to  take  him  away  from  me,  —  to  sell 
him,  —  sell  him  down  south,  ma'am,  to  go  all  alone,  —  a  baby 
that  had  never  been  away  from  his  mother  in  his  life  !  I 
could  n't  stand  it,  ma'am.  I  knew  I  never  should  be  good  for 
anything,  if  they  did ;  and  when  I  knew  the  papers  were 
signed,  and  he  was  sold,  I  took  him  and  came  off  in  the  night ; 
and  they  chased  me,  —  the  man  that  bought  him,  and  some  of 
Mas'r's  folks,  —  and  they  were  coming  down  right  behind  me, 
and  I  heard  'em.  I  jumped  right  on  to  the  ice  ;  and  how  I 
got  across,  I  don't  know,  —  but,  first  I  knew,  a  man  was  help 
ing  me  up  the  bank." 

The  woman  did  not  sob  nor  weep.  She  had  gone  to  a  place 
where  tears  are  dry  ;  but  every  one  around  her  was,  in  some 
way  characteristic  of  themselves,  showing  signs  of  hearty  sym 
pathy. 

The  two  little  boys,  after  a  desperate  rummaging  in  their 
pockets,  in  search  of  those  pocket-handkerchiefs  which  mothers 
know  are  never  to  be  found  there,  had  thrown  themselves  dis 
consolately  into  the  skirts  of  their  mother's  gown,  where  they 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  95 

were  sobbing,  and  wiping  their  eyes  and  noses,  to  their  hearts' 
content ;  —  Mrs.  Bird  had  her  face  fairly  hidden  in  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  ;  and  old  Dinah,  with  tears  streaming  down  her 
black,  honest  face,  was  ejaculating,  "  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  !  " 
with  all  the  fervor  of  a  camp-meeting ;  —  while  old  Cudjoe, 
rubbing  his  eyes  very  hard  with  his  cuffs,  and  making  a  most 
uncommon  variety  of  wry  faces,  occasionally  responded  in  the 
same  key,  with  great  fervor.  Our  senator  was  a  statesman,  and 
of  course  could  not  be  expected  to  cry,  like  other  mortals ;  and 
so  he  turned  his  back  to  the  company,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window,  and  seemed  particularly  busy  in  clearing  his  throat  and 
wiping  his  spectacle-glasses,  occasionally  blowing  his  nose  in  a 
manner  that  was  calculated  to  excite  suspicion,  had  any  one 
been  in  a  state  to  observe  critically. 

"  How  came  you  to  tell  me  you  had  a  kind  master  ?  "  he  sud* 
demy  exclaimed,  gulping  down  very  resolutely  some  kind  of  ris 
ing  in  his  throat,  and  turning  suddenly  round  upon  the  woman. 

"  Because  he  was  a  kind  master ;  I  '11  say  that  of  him,  any 
way  ;  —  and  my  mistress  was  kind  ;  but  they  could  n't  help 
themselves.  They  were  owing  money  ;  and  there  was  some  way, 
I  can't  tell  how,  that  a  man  had  a  hold  on  them,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  give  him  his  will.  I  listened,  and  heard  him  telling 
mistress  that,  and  she  begging  and  pleading  for  me.  —  and  he 
told  her  he  could  n't  help  himself,  and  that  the  papers  were  all 
drawn ;  —  and  then  it  was  I  took  him  arid  left  my  home,  and 
came  away.  I  knew  't  was  no  use  of  my  trying  to  live,  if  they 
did  it ;  for  't  'pears  like  this  child  is  all  I  have." 

"  Have  you  no  husband  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  belongs  to  another  man.  His  master  is  real 
hard  to  him,  and  won't  let  him  come  to  see  me,  hardly  ever; 
and  he  's  grown  harder  and  harder  upon  us,  and  he  threatens 
to  sell  him  down  south ;  —  it 's  like  I  '11  never  see  him  again  !  " 

The  quiet  tone  in  which  the  woman  pronounced  these  words 
might  have  led  a  superficial  observer  to  think  that  she  was  en 
tirely  apathetic ;  but  there  was  a  calm,  settled  depth  of  anguish 
in  her  large,  dark  eye,  that  spoke  of  something  far  otherwise. 

"And  where  do  you  mean  to  go,  my  poor  woman?"  said 
Mrs.  Bird. 

"  To  Canada,  if  I  only  knew  where  that  was.     Is  it  very  far 


96  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;    OR, 

off,  is  Canada?"  said  she,  looking  up,  with  a  simple,  confiding 
air,  to  Mrs.  Bird's  face. 

"  Poor  thing !  "  said  Mrs.  Bird,  involuntarily. 

"  Is  't  a  very  great  way  off,  think  ?  "  said  the  woman,  ear 
nestly. 

"Much  further  than  you  think,  poor  child  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bird; 
"  hut  we  will  try  to  think  what  can  be  done  for  you.  Here, 
Dinah,  make  her  up  a  bed  in  your  own  room,  close  by  the 
kitchen,  and  I  '11  think  what  to  do  for  her  in  the  morning. 
Meanwhile,  never  fear,  poor  woman ;  put  your  trust  in  God  ; 
he  will  protect  you." 

Mrs.  Bird  and  her  husband  reentered  the  parlor.  She  sat 
down  in  her  little  rocking-chair  before  the  fire,  swaying  thought 
fully  to  and  fro.  Mr.  Bird  strode  up  and  down  the  room, 
grumbling  to  himself.  "  Pish  !  pshaw  !  confounded  awkward 
business  !  "  At  length,  striding  up  to  his  wife,  he  said,  — 

"I  say,  wife,  she'll  have  to  get  away  from  here,  this  very 
night.  That  fellow  will  be  down  on  the  scent  bright  and  early 
to-morrow  morning ;  if  't  was  only  the  woman,  she  could  lie 
quiet  till  it  was  over ;  but  that  little  chap  can't  be  kept  still  by 
a  troop  of  horse  and  foot,  I  '11  warrant  me ;  he  '11  bring  it  all 
out,  popping  his  head  out  of  some  window  or  door.  A  pretty 
kettle  of  fish  it  would  be  for  me,  too,  to  be  caught  with  them 
both  here,  just  now !  No  ;  they  '11  have  to  be  got  off  to-night." 

"  To-night !     How  is  it  possible  ?  —  where  to  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  know  pretty  well  where  to,"  said  the  senator,  be 
ginning  to  put  on  his  boots,  with  a  reflective  air ;  and,  stopping 
when  his  leg  was  half  in,  he  embraced  his  knee  with  both  hands, 
and  seemed  to  go  off  in  deep  meditation. 

"  It 's  a  confounded  awkward,  ugly  business,"  said  he,  at  last, 
beginning  to  tug  at  his  boot-straps  again,  "  and  that 's  a  fact !  " 
After  one  boot  was  fairly  on,  the  senator  sat  with  the  other  in 
his  hand,  profoundly  studying  the  figure  of  the  carpet.  "  It 
will  have  to  be  done,  though,  for  aught  I  see,  —  hang  it  all ! ' 
and  he  drew  the  other  boot  anxiously  on,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

Now,  little  Mrs.  Bird  was  a  discreet  woman,  —  a  woman  who 
never  in  her  life  said,  "  I  told  you  so !  "  and,  on  the  present 
occasion,  though  pretty  well  aware  of  the  shape  her  husband's 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  97 

meditations  were  taking,  she  very  prudently  forbore  to  meddle 
with  them,  only  sat  very  quietly  in  her  chair,  and  looked  quite 
ready  to  hear  her  liege  lord's  intentions,  when  he  should  think 
proper  to  utter  them. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "there's  my  old  client,  Van  Trompe, 
has  come  over  from  Kentucky,  and  set  all  his  slaves  free ;  and 
he  has  bought  a  place  seven  miles  up  the  creek,  here,  back  in 
the  woods,  where  nobody  goes,  unless  they  go  on  purpose ;  and 
it 's  a  place  that  is  n't  found  in  a  hurry.  There  she  'd  be  safe 
enough ;  but  the  plague  of  the  thing  is,  nobody  could  drive  a 
carriage  there  to-night,  but  me" 

"  Why  not  ?     Cudjoe  is  an  excellent  driver." 

"  Ay,  ay,  but  here  it  is.  The  creek  has  to  be  crossed  twice  ; 
and  the  second  crossing  is  quite  dangerous,  unless  one  knows  it 
as  I  do.  I  have  crossed  it  a  hundred  times  on  horseback,  and 
know  exactly  the  turns  to  take.  And  so,  you  see,  there  's  no 
help  for  it.  Cudjoe  must  put  in  the  horses,  as  quietly  as  may 
be,  about  twelve  o'clock,  and  1 11  take  her  over ;  and  then,  to 
give  color  to  the  matter,  he  must  carry  me  on  to  the  next  tavern, 
to  take  the  stage  for  Columbus,  that  comes  by  about  three  or 
four,  and  so  it  will  look  as  if  I  had  had  the  carriage  only  for 
that.  I  shall  get  into  business  bright  and  early  in  the  morning. 
But  I  'm  thinking  I  shall  feel  rather  cheap  there,  after  all  that 's 
been  said  and  done  ;  but,  hang  it,  I  can't  help  it !  " 

"  Your  _heart  is  better  than^y^ur  head,  in  this  case.  John," 
said  the  wife,  laying  her  little  white  hand  on  his.  "  Could  I 
ever  have  loved  you,  had  I  not  known  you  better  than  you  know 
yourself  ?  "  And  the  little  woman  looked  so  handsome,  with 
the  tears  sparkling  in  her  eyes,  that  the  senator  thought  he  must 
be  a  decidedly  clever  fellow,  to  get  such  a  pretty  creature  into 
such  a  passionate  admiration  of  him  ;  and  so,  what  could  he  do 
but  walk  off  soberly,  to  see  about  the  carriage.  At  the  door, 
however,  he  stopped  a  moment,  and  then  coming  back,  he  said, 
with  some  hesitation,  — 

"  Mary,  I  don't  know  how  you  'd  feel  about  it,  but  there  's 
that  drawer  full  of  things  —  of  —  of  —  poor  little  Henry's." 
So  saying,  he  turned  quickly  on  his  heel,  and  shut  the  door  after 
him. 

His  wife  opened  the  little  bedroom  door  adjoining  her  room, 
7 


98  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

and,  taking  the  candle,  set  it  down  on  the  top  of  a  bureau  there ; 
then  from  a  small  recess  she  took  a  key,  and  put  it  thoughtfully 
in  the  lock  of  a  drawer,  and  made  a  sudden  pause,  while  two 
boys,  who,  boy-like,  had  followed  close  on  her  heels,  stood  look 
ing,  with  silent,  significant  glances,  at  their  mother,  And  oh, 
mother  that  reads  this,  has  there  never  been  in  your  house  a 
drawer,  or  a  closet,  the  opening  of  which  has  been  to  you  like 
the  opening  again  of  a  little  grave  ?  Ah !  happy  mother  that 
you  are,  if  it  has  not  been  so. 

Mrs.  Bird  slowly  opened  the  drawer.  There  were  little  coats 
of  many  a  form  and  pattern,  piles  of  aprons,  and  rows  of  small 
stockings ;  and  even  a  pair  of  little  shoes,  worn  and  rubbed  at 
the  toes,  were  peeping  from  the  folds  of  a  paper.  There  was  a 
toy  horse  and  wagon,  a  top,  a  ball,  —  memorials  gathered  with 
many  a  tear  and  many  a  heart-break  ?  She  sat  down  by  the 
drawer,  and,  leaning  her  head  on  her  hands  over  it,  wept  till 
the  tears  fell  through  her  fingers  into  the  drawer ;  then  sud 
denly  raising  her  head,  she  began,  with  nervous  haste,  selecting 
the  plainest  and  most  substantial  articles,  and  gathering  them 
into  a  bundle. 

"  Mamma,"  said  one  of  the  boys,  gently  touching  her  arm, 
"  are  you  going  to  give  away  those  things  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boys,"  she  said,  softly  and  earnestly,  "if  our  dear, 
loving  little  Henry  looks  down  from  heaven,  he  would  be  glad 
to  have  us  do  this.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  give 
them  away  to  any  common  person,  —  to  anybody  that  was 
happy  5  but  I  give  them  to  a  mother  more  heart-broken  and 
sorrowful  than  I  am ;  and  I  hope  God  will  send  his  blessings 
with  them !  " 

There  are  in  this  world  blessed  souls,  whose  sorrows  all  spring 
up  into  joys  for  others ;  whose  earthly  hopes,  laid  in  the  grave 
with  many  tears,  are  the  seed  from  which  spring  healing  flowers 
and  balm  for  the  desolate  and  the  distressed.  Among  such  was 
the  delicate  woman  who  sits  there  by  the  lamp,  dropping  slow 
tears,  while  she  prepares  the  memorials  of  her  own  lost  one  for 
the  outcast  wanderer. 

After  a  while,  Mrs.  Bird  opened  a  wardrobe,  and,  taking 
from  thence  a  plain,  serviceable  dress  or  two,  she  sat  down  busily 
to  her  work-table,  and,  with  need1*,  scissors,  and  thimble,  at 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  99 

hand,  quietly  commenced  the  "letting  down  "  process  which  her 
husband  had  recommended,  and  continued  busily  at  it  till  the 
old  clock  in  the  corner  struck  twelve,  and  she  heard  the  low 
rattling  of  wheels  at  the  door. 

"  Mary,"  said  her  husband,  coming  in,  with  his  overcoat  in 
his  hand,  "  you  must  wake  her  up  now  ;  we  must  be  off." 

Mrs.  Bird  hastily  deposited  the  various  articles  she  had  col 
lected  in  a  small  plain  trunk,  and  locking  it,  desired  her  hus 
band  to  see  it.  in  the  carriage,  and  then  proceeded  to  call  the 
woman.  Soon,  arrayed  in  a  cloak,  bonnet,  and  shawl,  that  had 
belonged  to  her  benefactress,  she  appeared  at  the  door  with  her 
child  in  her  arms.  Mr.  Bird  hurried  her  into  the  carriage,  and 
Mrs.  Bird  pressed  on  after  her  to  the  carriage  steps.  Eliza 
leaned  out  of  the  carriage,  and  put  out  her  hand,  —  a  hand  as 
soft  and  beautiful  as  was  given  in  return.  She  fixed  her  large, 
dark  eyes,  full  of  earnest  meaning,  on  Mrs.  Bird's  face,  and 
seemed  going  to  speak.  Her  lips  moved,  —  she  tried  once  or 
twice,  but  there  was  no  sound,  —  and  pointing  upward,  with  a 
look  never  to  be  forgotten,  she  fell  back  in  the  seat,  and  covered 
her  face.  The  door  was  shut,  and  the  carriage  drove  on. 

What  a  situation,  now,  for  a  patriotic  senator,  that  had  been 
all  the  week  before  spurring  up  the  legislature  of  his  native  state 
to  pass  more  stringent  resolutions  against  escaping  fugitives, 
their  harborers  and  abettors  ! 

Our  good  senator  in  his  native  state  had  not  been  exceeded  by 
any  of  his  brethren  at  Washington,  in  the  sort  of  eloquence 
which  has  won  for  them  immortal  renown  !  How  sublimely  he 
had  sat  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  scouted  all  sentimen 
tal  weakness  of  those  who  would  put  the  welfare  of  a  few  mis 
erable  fugitives  before  great  state  interests  ! 

He  was  as  bold  as  a  lion  about  it,  and  "  mightily  convinced  " 
not  only  himself,  but  everybody  that  heard  him  ;  —  but  then 
his  idea  of  a  fugitive  was  only  an  idea  of  the  letters  that  spell 
the  word,  —  or,  at  the  most,  the  image  of  a  little  newspaper 
picture  of  a  man  with  a  stick  and  bundle,  with  "  Ran  away 
from  the  subscriber"  under  it.  The  magic  of  the  real  presence 
of  distress,  —  the  imploring  human  eye,  the  frail,  trembling  hu 
man  hand,  the  despairing  appeal  of  helpless  agony,  —  these  he 
had  never  tried.  He  had  never  thought  that  a  fugitive  might 


100  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

be  a  hapless  mother,  a  defenceless  child,  —  like  that  one  which 
was  now  wearing  his  lost  boy's  little  well-known  cap  ;  and  so, 
as  our  poor  senator  was  not  stone  or  steel,  —  as  he  was  a  man, 
and  a  downright  noble-hearted  one,  too,  —  he  was,  as  everybody 
must  see,  in  a  sad  case  for  his  patriotism.  And  you  need  not 
exult  over  him,  good  brother  of  the  Southern  States  ;  for  we 
have  some  inklings  that  many  of  you,  under  similar  circum 
stances,  would  not  do  much  better.  We  have  reason  to  know, 
in  Kentucky,  as  in  Mississippi,  are  noble  and  generous  hearts, 
to  whom  never  was  tale  of  suffering  told  in  vain.  Ah,  good 
brother !  is  it  fair  for  you  to  expect  of  us  services  which  your 
own  brave,  honorable  heart  would  not  allow  you  to  render,  were 
you  in  our  place  ? 

Be  that  as  it  may,  if  our  good  senator  was  a  political  sinner, 
he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  expiate  it  by  his  night's  penance.  There 
had  been  a  long  continuous  period  of  rainy  weather,  and  the  soft, 
rich  earth  of  Ohio,  as  every  one  knows,  is  admirably  suited  to 
the  manufacture  of  mud,  —  and  the  road  was  an  Ohio  railroad 
of  the  good  old  times. 

"  And  pray,  what  sort  of  a  road  may  that  be  ?  "  says  some 
eastern  traveller,  who  has  been  accustomed  to  connect  no  ideas 
with  a  railroad  but  those  of  smoothness  or  speed. 

Know,  then,  innocent  eastern  friend,  that  in  benighted  re 
gions  of  the  west,  where  the  mud  is  of  unfathomable  and  sub 
lime  depth,  roads  are  made  of  round  rough  logs,  arranged  trans 
versely  side  by  side,  and  coated  over  in  their  pristine  freshness 
with  earth,  turf,  and  whatsoever  may  come  to  hand,  and  then 
the  rejoicing  native  calleth  it  a  road,  and  straightway  essayeth 
to  ride  thereupon.  In  process  of  time,  the  rains  wash  off  all  the 
turf  and  grass  aforesaid,  move  the  logs  hither  and  thither  in 
picturesque  positions,  up,  down,  and  crosswise,  with  divers  chasms 
and  ruts  of  black  mud  intervening. 

Over  such  a  road  as  this  our  senator  went  stumbling  along, 
making  moral  reflections  as  continuously  as  under  the  circum 
stances  could  be  expected,  —  the  carriage  proceeding  along 
much  as  follows,  —  bump !  bump  !  bump  !  slush  !  down  in  the 
mud !  —  the  senator,  woman,  and  child  reversing  their  positions 
so  suddenly  as  to  come,  without  any  very  accurate  adjustment, 
against  the  windows  of  the  down-hill  side-  Carriage  sticks  fastj 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  101 

while  Cudjoe  on  the  outside  is  heard  making  a  great  muster 
among  the  horses.  After  various  ineffectual  pullings  and  twitch- 
ings,  just  as  the  senator  is  losing  all  patience,  the  carriage  sud 
denly  rights  itself  with  a  bounce,  —  two  front  wheels  go  down 
into  another  abyss,  and  senator,  woman,  and  child  all  tumble 
promiscuously  on  to  the  front  seat,  —  senator's  hat  is  jammed 
over  his  eyes  and  nose  quite  unceremoniously,  and  he  considers 
himself  fairly  extinguished  ;  —  child  cries,  and  Cudjoe  on  the 
outside  delivers  animated  addresses  to  the  horses,  who  are  kick 
ing,  and  floundering,  and  straining,  under  repeated  cracks  of 
the  whip.  Carriage  springs  up,  with  another  bounce,  —  down 
go  the  hind  wheels,  —  senator,  woman,  and  child  fly  over  on  to 
the  back  seat,  his  elbows  encountering  her  bonnet,  and  both  her 
feet  being  jammed  into  his  hat,  which  flies  off  in  the  concussion, 
After  a  few  moments  the  "  slough "  is  passed,  and  the  horses 
stop,  panting ;  —  the  senator  finds  his  hat,  the  woman  straight 
ens  her  bonnet  and  hushes  her  child,  and  they  brace  themselves 
firmly  for  what  is  yet  to  come. 

For  a  while  only  the  continuous  bump  !  bump  !  intermingled, 
just  by  way  of  variety,  with  divers  side  plunges  and  compound 
shakes  ;  and  they  begin  to  flatter  themselves  that  they  are  not 
so  badly  off,  after  all.  At  last,  with  a  square  plunge,  which 
puts  all  on  to  their  feet  and  then  down  into  their  seats  with  in 
credible  quickness,  the  carriage  stops,  —  and,  after  much  outside 
commotion,  Cudjoe  appears  at  the  door. 

"Please,  sir,  it's  powerful  bad  spot,  this  yer.  I  don't  know 
how  we  's  to  get  clar  out.  I  'm  a  thinkin'  we  '11  have  to  be  a 
gettin'  rails." 

The  senator  despairingly  steps  out,  picking  gingerly  for  some 
firm  foothold ;  down  goes  one  foot  an  immeasurable  depth,  — 
lie  tries  to  pull  it  up,  loses  his  balance,  and  tumbles  over  into 
the  mud,  and  is  fished  out,  in  a  very  despairing  condition,  by 
Cudjoe. 

But  we  forbear,  out  of  sympathy  to  our  readers'  bones.  West 
ern  travellers,  who  have  beguiled  the  midnight  hour  in  the  in 
teresting  process  of  pulling  down  rail  fences,  to  pry  their  car 
riages  out  of  mud-holes,  will  have  a  respectful  and  mournful 
sympathy  with  our  unfortunate  hero.  We  beg  them  to  drop  a 
silent  tear,  and  pass  on. 


102  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;    OR, 

It  was  full  late  in  the  night  when  the  carriage  emerged,  drip 
ping  and  bespattered,  out  of  the  creek,  and  stood  at  the  door  of 
a  large  farm-house. 

It  took  no  inconsiderable  perseverance  to  arouse  the  inmates ; 
but  at  last  the  respectable  proprietor  appeared,  and  undid  the 
door.  He  was  a  great,  tall,  bristling  Orson  of  a  fellow,  full  six 
feet  and  some  inches  in  his  stockings,  and  arrayed  in  a  red  flan 
nel  hunting-shirt.  A  very  heavy  mat  of  sandy  hair,  in  a  de 
cidedly  tousled  condition,  and  a  beard  of  some  days'  growth, 
gave  the  worthy  man  an  appearance,  to  say  the  least,  not  partic 
ularly  prepossessing.  He  stood  for  a  few  minutes  holding  the 
candle  aloft,  and  blinking  on  our  travellers  with  a  dismal  and 
mystified  expression  that  was  truly  ludicrous.  It  cost  some  ef 
fort  of  our  senator  to  induce  him  to  comprehend  the  case  fully ; 
and  while  he  is  doing  his  best  at  that,  we  shall  give  him  a  little 
introduction  to  our  readers. 

Honest  old  John  Van  Trompe  was  once  quite  a  considerable 
land-bolder  and  slave-owner  in  the  State  of  Kentucky.  Having 
"  nothing  of  the  bear  about  him  but  the  skin,"  and  being  gifted 
by  nature  with  a  great,  honest,  just  heart,  quite  equal  to  his 
gigantic  frame,  he  had  been  for  some  years  witnessing  with 
repressed  uneasiness  the  workings  of  a  system  equally  bad  for 
oppressor  and  oppressed.  At  last,  one  day,  John's  great  heart 
had  swelled  altogether  too  big  to  wear  his  bonds  any  longer ; 
so  he  just  took  his  pocket-book  out  of  his  desk,  and  went  over 
into  Ohio,  and  bought  a  quarter  of  a  township  of  good,  rich 
land,  made  out  free  papers  for  all  his  people,  —  men,  women, 
and  children,  —  packed  them  up  in  wagons,  and  sent  them  off 
to  settle  down  ;  and  then  honest  John  turned  his  face  up  the 
creek,  and  sat  quietly  down  on  a  snug,  retired  farm,  to  enjoy 
his  conscience  and  his  reflections. 

"  Are  you  the  man  that  will  shelter  a  poor  woman  and  child 
from  slave-catchers  ?  "  said  the  senator,  explicitly. 

"  I  rather  think  I  am,"  said  honest  John,  with  some  consider 
able  emphasis. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  the  senator. 

"  If  there  's  anybody  comes,"  said  the  good  man,  stretching 
his  tall,  muscular  form  upward,  "  why  here  I  'm  ready  for  him, 
and  I  've  got  seven  sons,  each  six  foot  high,  and  they  '11  be 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  103 

ready  for  'em.  Give  our  respects  to  'em,"  said  John ;  "  tell 
'em  it 's  no  matter  how  soon  they  call,  —  make  no  kinder  differ 
ence  to  us,"  said  John,  running  his  lingers  through  the  shock  of 
hair  that  thatched  his  head,  and  bursting  out  into  a  great  laugh. 
Weary,  jaded,  and  spiritless,  Eliza  dragged  herself  up  to  the 
door,  with  her  child  lying  in  a  heavy  sleep  on  her  arm.  The 
rough  man  held  the  candle  to  her  face,  and  uttering  a  kind  of 
compassionate  grunt,  opened  the  door  of  a  small  bedroom  ad 
joining  to  the  large  kitchen  where  they  were  standing,  and 
motioned  her  to  go  in.  He  took  down  a  candle,  and  lighting  it, 
set  it  upon  the  table,  and  then  addressed  himself  to  Eliza. 

"  Now,  I  say,  gal,  you  need  n't  be  a  bit  afeard,  let  who  will 
come  here.  I  'm  up  to  all  that  sort  o'  thing,"  said  he,  pointing 
to  two  or  three  goodly  rifles  over  the  mantel-piece  ;  "  and  most 
people  that  know  me  know  that  't  would  n't  be  healthy  to  try 
to  get  anybody  out  o'  my  house  when  I  'm  agin  it.  So  now 
you  jist  go  to  sleep  now,  as  quiet  as  if  yer  mother  was  a  rockin' 
ye,"  said  he,  as  he  shut  the  door. 

"  Why,  this  is  an  uncommon  handsome  un,"  he  said  to  the 
senator.  "  Ah,  well ;  handsome  uns  has  the  greatest  cause  to 
run,  sometimes,  if  they  has  any  kind  o'  feelin',  such  as  decent 
women  should.  I  know  all  about  that." 

The  senator,  in  a  few  words,  briefly  explained  Eliza's  history. 
"  Oh  !  ou  !  aw !  now,  I  want  to  know  ?  "  said  the  good  man, 
pitifully  ;  "  sho  !  now  sho  !  That 's  natur  now,  poor  crittur  ! 
hunted  down  now  like  a  deer,  —  hunted  down,  jest  for  havin' 
natural  feelin's,  and  doin'  what  no  kind  o'  mother  could  help  a 
doin' !  I  tell  ye  what,  these  yer  things  make  me  come  the 
nighest  to  swearin',  now,  o'  most  anything,"  said  honest  John, 
as  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  a  great,  freckled,  yellow 
hand.  "  I  tell  yer  what,  stranger,  it  was  years  and  years  be 
fore  I  'd  jine  the  church,  'cause  the  ministers  round  in  our  parts 
used  to  preach  that  the  Bible  went  in  for  these  ere  cuttings  up, 
—  and  I  could  n't  be  up  to  'em  with  their  Greek  and  Hebrew, 
and  so  I  took  up  agin  'em,  Bible  and  all.  I  never  jined  the 
church  till  I  found  a  minister  that  was  up  to  'em  all  in  Greek 
and  all  that,  and  he  said  right  the  contrary ;  and  then  I  took 
right  hold,  and  jined  the  church,  —  I  did  now,  fact,"  said  John, 
who  had  been  all  this  time  uncorking  some  very  frisky  bottled 
cider,  which  at  this  juncture  he  presented. 


104  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Ye  'd  better  jest  put  up  here,  now,  till  daylight,"  said  he, 
heartily,  "  and  I  '11  call  up  the  old  woman,  and  have  a  bed  got 
ready  for  you  in  no  time." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  friend,"  said  the  senator.  "  I  must 
be  along,  to  take  the  night  stage  for  Columbus." 

"  Ah  !  well,  then,  if  you  must,  I  '11  go  a  piece  with  you,  and 
show  you  a  cross  road  that  will  take  you  there  better  than  the 
road  you  came  on.  That  road  's  mighty  bad." 

John  equipped  himself,  and,  with  a  lantern  in  hand,  was 
soon  seen  guiding  the  senator's  carriage  towards  a  road  that  ran 
down  in  a  hollow,  back  of  his  dwelling.  When  they  parted, 
the  senator  put  into  his  hand  a  ten-dollar  bill. 

"  It 's  for  her,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  John,  with  equal  conciseness. 

They  shook  hands,  and  parted. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  105 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    PROPERTY    IS    CARRIED    OFF. 

THE  February  morning  looked  gray  and  drizzling  through  the 
window  of  Uncle  Tom's  cabin.  It  looked  on  downcast  faces, 
the  images  of  mournful  hearts.  The  little  table  stood  out  before 
the  fire,  covered  with  an  ironing-cloth  ;  a  coarse  but  clean  shirt 
or  two,  fresh  from  the  iron,  hung  on  the  back  of  a  chair  by  the 
fire,  and  Aunt  Chloe  had  another  spread  out  before  her  on  the 
table.  Carefully  she  rubbed  and  ironed  every  fold  and  every 
hem,  with  the  most  scrupulous  exactness,  every  now  and  then 
raising  her  hand  to  her  face  to  wipe  off  the  tears  that  were 
coursing  down  her  cheeks. 

Tom  sat  by,  with  his  Testament  open  on  his  knee,  and  his 
head  leaning  upon  his  hand ;  —  but  neither  spoke.  It  was  yet 
early,  and  the  children  lay  all  asleep  together  in  their  little  rude 
trundle-bed. 

Tom,  who  had,  to  the  full,  the  gentle,  domestic  heart,  which, 
woe  for  them  !  has  been  a  peculiar  characteristic  of  his  unhappy 
race,  got  up  and  walked  silently  to  look  at  his  children. 

"  It 's  the  last  time,"  he  said. 

Aunt  Chloe  did  not  answer,  only  rubbed  away  over  and  over 
on  the  coarse  shirt,  already  as  smooth  as  hands  could  make  it, 
and  finally  setting  her  iron  suddenly  down  with  a  despairing 
plunge,  she  sat  down  to  the  table,  and  "  lifted  up  her  voice  and 
wept." 

"  S'pose  we  must  be  resigned  ;  but,  O  Lord  !  how  ken  I  ? 
If  I  know'd  anything  whar  you  's  goin',  or  how  they  'd  sarve 
you !  Missis  says  she  '11  try  and  'deem  ye,  in  a  year  or  two  ; 
but  Lor !  nobody  never  comes  up  that  goes  down  thar  !  They 
kills  'em  !  I  've  hearn  'em  tell  how  dey  works  'em  up  on  dem 
ar  plantations." 

"  There  '11  be  the  same  God  there,  Chloe,  that  there  is  here." 


A 06  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;  OR, 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  "  s'pose  dere  will ;  but  de  Lord 
lets  drefful  things  happen,  sometimes.  I  don't  seem  to  get  no 
comfort  dat  way." 

"  I  'm  in  the  Lord's  hands,"  said  Tom  ;  "  nothin'  can  go  no 
furder  than  he  lets  it ;  —  and  thar  's  one  thing  I  can  thank  him 
for.  It 's  me  that 's  sold  and  going  down,  and  not  you  nur  the 
chil'en.  Here  you  're  safe  ;  —  what  comes  will  come  only  on 
me  ;  and  the  Lord,  he  '11  help  me,  —  I  know  he  will." 

Ah,  brave,  manly  heart,  —  smothering  thine  own  sorrow,  to 
comfort  thy  beloved  ones  !  Tom  spoke  with  a  thick  utterance, 
and  with  a  bitter  choking  in  his  throat,  —  but  he  spoke  brave 
and  strong. 

"  Let 's  think  on  our  marcies  !  "  he  added,  tremulously,  as  if 
he  was  quite  sure  he  needed  to  think  on  them  very  hard  indeed. 

u  Marcies  !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe  ;  "  don't  see  no  marcy  in  't ! 
't  an't  right !  't  an't  right  it  should  be  so  !  Mas'r  never  ought 
ter  left  it  so  that  ye  could  be  took  for  his  debts.  Ye  Ve  arnt 
him  all  he  gets  for  ye,  twice  over.  He  owed  ye  yer  freedom, 
and  ought  ter  gin  't  to  yer  years  ago.  Mebbe  he  can't  help 
himself  now,  but  I  feel  it 's  wrong.  Nothing  can't  beat  that  ar 
out  o'  me.  Sich  a  faithful  crittur  as  ye  've  been,  —  and  allers 
sot  his  business  'fore  yer  own  every  way,  —  and  reckoned  on 
him  more  than  yer  own  wife  and  chil'en  !  Them  as  sells  heart's 
love  and  heart's  blood,  to  get  out  thar  scrapes,  de  Lord  '11  be  up 
to  'em  !  " 

"  Chloe !  now,  if  ye  Jove  me,  ye  won't  talk  so,  when  perhaps 
jest  the  last  time  we  '11  ever  have  together !  And  I  '11  tell  ye 
Chloe,  it  goes  agin  me  to  hear  one  word  agin  Mas'r.  Warn't  he 
put  in  my  arms  a  baby  ?  —  it  's  natur  I  should  think  a  heap  of 
him.  And  he  could  n't  be  spected  to  think  so  much  of  poor 
Tom.  Mas'rs  is  used  to  havin'  all  these  yer  things  done  for 
'em,  and  nat'lly  they  don't  think  so  much  on  't.  They  can't 
be  spected  to,  no  way.  Set  him  'longside  of  other  Mas'rs,  — 
who  's  had  the  treatment  and  the  livin'  I  've  had  ?  And  he 
never  would  have  let  this  yer  come  on  me,  if  he  could  have  seed 
it  aforehand.  I  know  he  would  n't." 

"  Wai,  any  way,  thar  's  wrong  about  it  somewhar"  said  Aunt 
Chloe,  in  whom  a  stubborn  sense  of  justice  was  a  predominant 
trait ;  "  I  can't  jest  make  out  whar  't  13,  but  thar  's  wrong  some* 
tvhar,  I  'm  clar  o'  that." 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  107 

"  Yer  ought  ter  look  up  to  the  Lord  ahove,  —  he  's  above  all, 
—  thar  don't  a  sparrow  fall  without  him." 

u  It  don't  seem  to  comfort  me,  but  I  spect  it  orter,"  said  Aunt 
Chloe.  "  But  dar  's  no  use  talkin' ;  I  '11  jes  wet  up  de  corn- 
cake,  and  get  ye  one  good  breakfast,  'cause  nobody  knows  when 
you  '11  get  another." 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  sufferings  of  the  negroes  sold 
south,  it  must  be  remembered  that  all  the  instinctive  affections 
of  that  race  are  peculiarly  strong.  Their  local  attachments  are 
very  abiding.  They  are  not  naturally  daring  and  enterprising, 
but  home-loving  and  affectionate.  Add  to  this  all  the  terrors 
with  which  ignorance  invests  the  unknown,  and  add  to  this, 
again,  that  selling  to  the  south  is  set  before  the  negro  from 
childhood  as  the  last  severity  of  punishment.  The  threat  that 
terrifies  more  than  whipping  or  torture  of  any  kind  is  the  threat 
of  being  sent  down  river.  We  have  ourselves  heard  this  feeling 
expressed  by  them,  and  seen  the  unaffected  horror  with  which 
they  will  sit  in  their  gossiping  hours,  and  tell  frightful  stories  of 
that  "  down  river,"  which  to  them  is 

11  That  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns." 

A  missionary  among  the  fugitives  in  Canada  told  us  that 
many  of  the  fugitives  confessed  themselves  to  have  escaped 
from  comparatively  kind  masters,  and  that  they  were  induced 
to  brave  the  perils  of  escape,  in  almost  every  case,  by  the  des 
perate  horror  with  which  they  regarded  being  sold  south,  —  a 
doom  which  was  hanging  either  over  themselves  or  their  hus 
bands,  their  wives  or  children.  This  nerves  the  African, 
naturally  patient,  timid,  and  unenterprising,  with  heroic  cour 
age,  and  leads  him  to  suffer  hunger,  cold,  pain,  the  perils  of  the 
wilderness,  and  the  more  dread  penalties  of  recapture. 

The  simple  morning  meal  now  smoked  on  the  table,  for  Mrs. 
Shelby  had  excused  Aunt  Chloe's  attendance  at  the  great  house 
that  morning.  The  poor  soul  had  expended  all  her  little  ener 
gies  on  this  farewell  feast,  —  had  killed  and  dressed  her  choicest 
chicken,  and  prepared  her  corn-cake  with  scrupulous  exactness, 
just  to  her  husband's  taste,  and  brought  out  certain  mysterious 
jars  on  the  mantel-piece,  some  preserves  that  were  never  pro 
duced  except  on  extreme  occasions. 


108  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

"Lor,  Pete,"  said  Mose,  triumphantly,  "han't  we  got  a  bus- 
ter  of  a  breakfast !  "  at  the  same  time  catching  at  a  fragment  of 
the  chicken. 

Aunt  Chloe  gave  him  a  sudden  box  on  the  ear.  "  Thar  now ! 
crowing  over  the  last  breakfast  yer  poor  daddy  's  gwine  to  have 
to  home  !  " 

"  Oh,  Chloe  !  "  said  Tom  gently. 

"  Wai,  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  apron  ;  "  I  's  so  tossed  about,  it  makes  me  act  ugly." 

The  boys  stood  quite  still,  looking  first  at  their  father  and 
then  at  their  mother,  while  the  baby,  climbing  up  her  clothes, 
began  an  imperious,  commanding  cry. 

"  Thar !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  wiping  her  eyes  and  taking  up 
the  baby;  "now  I  's  done,  I  hope, —  now  do  eat  something. 
This  yer  's  my  nicest  chicken.  Thar,  boys,  ye  shall  have  some, 
poor  critturs  !  Yer  mammy  's  been  cross  to  yer." 

The  boys  needed  no  second  invitation,  and  went  in  with  great 
zeal  for  the  eatables  ;  and  it  was  well  they  did  so,  as  otherwise 
there  would  have  been  very  little  performed  to  any  purpose  by 
the  party. 

"  Now,"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  bustling  about  after  breakfast,  "  I 
must  put  up  yer  clothes.  Jest  like  as  not,  he  '11  take  'em  all 
away.  I  know  thar  ways,  —  mean  as  dirt,  they  is  !  Wai,  now, 
yer  flannels  for  rhumatis  is  in  this  corner  ;  so  be  car'ful,  'cause 
there  won't  nobody  make  ye  no  more.  Then  here  's  yer  old 
shirts,  and  theje  yer  is  new  ones.  I  toed  off  these  yer  stockings 
last  night,  and  put  de  ball  in  'em  to  mend  with.  But  Lor ! 
who  11  ever  mend  for  ye  ?  "  and  Aunt  Chloe,  again  overcome, 
laid  her  head  on  the  box  side,  and  sobbed.  "  To  think  on  't ! 
no  crittur  to  do  for  ye,  sick  or  well !  I  don't  railly  think  I 
ought  ter  be  good  now  !  " 

The  boys,  having  eaten  everything  there  was  on  the  break 
fast-table,  began  now  to  take  some  thought  of  the  case ;  and 
seeing  their  mother  crying,  and  their  father  looking  very  sad, 
began  to  whimper  and  put  their  hands  to  their  eyes.  Uncle 
Tom  had  the  baby  on  his  knee,  and  was  letting  her  enjoy  her 
self  to  the  utmost  extent,  scratching  his  face  and  pulling  his 
hair,  and  occasionally  breaking  out  into  clamorous  explosions 
of  delight,  evidently  arising  out  of  her  own  internal  reflections. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  109 

"  Ay,  crow  away,  poor  crittur !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe  ;  "  ye  '11 
have  to  come  to  it,  too !  ye  '11  live  to  see  yer  husband  sold,  or 
mebbe  be  sold  yerself ;  and  these  yer  boys,  they  's  to  be  sold,  I 
s'pose,  too,  jest  like  as  not,  when  dey  gets  good  for  somethin' ; 
an't  no  use  in  niggers  havin'  nothin' !  " 

Here  one  of  the  boys  called  out,  "  Thar  's  Missis  a-comin' 
in !  " 

"  She  can't  do  no  good  ;  what 's  she  coming  for  ?  "  said  Aunt 
Cliloe. 

Mrs.  Shelby  entered.  Aunt  Chloe  set  a  chair  for  her  in  a 
manner  decidedly  gruff  and  crusty.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice 
either  the  action  or  the  manner.  She  looked  pale  and  anxious. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  "  I  come  to  "  —  and  stopping  suddenly, 
and  regarding  the  silent  group,  she  sat  down  in  the  chair,  and, 
covering  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  began  to  sob. 

"  Lor,  now,  Missis,  don't  —  don't !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  burst 
ing  out  in  her  turn ;  and  for  a  few  moments  they  all  wept  in 
company.  And  in  those  tears  they  all  shed  together,  the  high 
and  the  lowly,  melted  away  all  the  heart-burnings  and  anger  of 
the  oppressed.  Oh,  ye  who  visit  the  distressed,  do  ye  know  that 
everything  your  money  can  buy,  given  with  a  cold,  averted  face, 
is  not  worth  one  honest  tear  shed  in  real  sympathy  ? 

"  My  good  fellow,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  "  I  can't  give  you  any 
thing  to  do  you  any  good.  If  I  give  you  money,  it  will  only  be 
taken  from  you.  But  I  tell  you  solemnly,  and  before  God,  that 
I  will  keep  trace  of  you,  and  bring  you  back  as  soon  as  I  can 
command  the  money  ;  —  and  till  then,  trust  in  God  !  " 

Here  the  boys  called  out  that  Mas'r  Haley  was  coming,  and 
then  an  unceremonious  kick  pushed  open  the  door.  Haley  stood 
there  in  very  ill  humor,  having  ridden  hard  the  night  before, 
and  being  not  at  all  pacified  by  his  ill  success  in  recapturing  his 
prey. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  ye  nigger,  ye  'r  ready  ?  Servant,  ma'am !  " 
said  he,  taking  off  his  hat,  as  he  saw  Mrs.  Shelby. 

Aunt  Chloe  shut  and  corded  the  box,  and,  getting  up,  looked 
gruffly  on  the  trader,  her  tears  seeming  suddenly  turned  to 
sparks  of  fire. 

Tom  rose  up  meekly,  to  follow  his  new  master,  and  raised 
up  his  heavy  box  on  his  shoulder.  His  wife  took  the  baby  in 


110  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;    OR, 

her  arms  to  go  with  him  to  the  wagon,  and  the  children,  still 
crying,  trailed  on  behind. 

Mrs.  Shelby,  walking  up  to  the  trader,  detained  him  for  a 
few  moments,  talking  with  him  in  an  earnest  manner  ;  and 
while  she  was  thus  talking,  the  whole  family  party  proceeded 
to  a  wagon,  that  stood  ready  harnessed  at  the  door.  A  crowd 
of  all  the  old  and  young  hands  on  the  place  stood  gathered 
around  it,  to  bid  farewell  to  their  old  associate.  Tom  had  been 
looked  up  to,  both  as  a  head  servant  and  a  Christian  teacher, 
by  all  the  place,  and  there  was  much  honest  sympathy  and 
grief  about  him,  particularly  among  the  women. 

<•  Why,  Chloe,  you  bar  it  better  'n  we  do  !  "  said  one  of  the 
women,  who  had  been  weeping  freely,  noticing  the  gloomy 
calmness  with  which  Aunt  Chloe  stood  by  the  wagon. 

"  I  's  done  my  tears !  "  she  said,  looking  grimly  at  the  trader, 
who  was  coming  up.  "  I  does  not  feel  to  cry  'fore  dat  ar  old 
limb,  no  how  !  " 

"  Get  in !  "  said  Haley  to  Tom,  as  he  strode  through  the 
crowd  of  servants,  who  looked  at  him  with  lowering  brows. 

Tom  got  in,  and  Haley,  drawing  out  from  under  the  wagon- 
seat  a  heavy  pair  of  shackles,  made  them  fast  around  each 
ankle. 

A  smothered  groan  of  indignation  ran  through  the  whole  cir 
cle,  and  Mrs.  Shelby  spoke  from  the  veranda,  — 

"  Mr.  Haley,  I  assure  you  that  precaution  is  entirely  unneces 
sary." 

"  Don'  know,  ma;am ;  I  've  lost  one  five  hundred  dollars  from 
this  yer  place,  and  I  can't  afford  to  run  no  more  risks." 

"  What  else  could  she  spect  on  him  ?  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  indig 
nantly,  while  the  two  boys,  who  now  seemed  to  comprehend  at 
once  their  father's  destiny,  clung  to  her  gown,  sobbing  and 
groaning  vehemently. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Tom,  "  that  Mas'r  George  happened  to  be 
away." 

George  had  gone  to  spend  two  or  three  days  with  a  compan 
ion  on  a  neighboring  estate,  and  having  departed  early  in  the 
morning,  before  Tom's  misfortune  had  been  made  public,  had 
left  without  hearing  of  it. 

"  Give  my  love  to  Mas'r  George,"  he  said,  earnestly. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  Ill 

Haley  whipped  up  the  horse,  and,  with  a  steady,  mournful 
look,  fixed  to  the  last  on  the  old  place,  Tom  was  whirled  away. 

Mr.  Shelby  at  this  time  was  not  at  home.  He  had  sold  Tom 
under  the  spur  of  a  driving  necessity,  to  get  out  of  the  power 
of  a  man^whom  he  dreaded, — and  his  first  feeling,  after  the 
consummation  of  the  bargain,  had  been  that  of  relief.  But  his 
wife's  expostulations  awoke  his  half-slumbering  regrets ;  and 
Tom's  manly  disinterestedness  increased  the  unpleasantness  of 
his  feelings.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  said  to  himself  that  he  had 
a  right  to  do  it,  —  that  everybody  did  it,  —  and  that  some  did 
it  without  even  the  excuse  of  necessity ;  —  he  could  not  satisfy 
his  own  feelings ;  and  that  he  might  not  witness  the  unpleasant 
scenes  of  the  consummation,  he  had  gone  on  a  short  business 
tour  up  the  country,  hoping  that  all  would  be  over  before  he  re- 
turned. 

Tom  and  Haley  rattled  on  along  the  dusty  road,  whirling 
past  every  old  familiar  spot,  until  the  bounds  of  the  estate  were 
fairly  passed,  and  they  found  themselves  out  on  the  open  pike. 
After  they  had  ridden  about  a  mile,  Haley  suddenly  drew  up 
at  the  door  of  a  blacksmith's  shop,  when,  taking  out  with  him  a 
pair  of  handcuffs,  he  stepped  into  the  shop,  to  have  a  little  alter 
ation  in  them. 

"  These  yer  's  a  little  too  small  for  his  build,"  said  Haley, 
showing  the  fetters,  and  pointing  out  to  Tom. 

"  Lor !  now,  if  thar  an't  Shelby's  Tom.  He  han't  sold  him, 
now  ?  "  said  the  smith. 

"  Yes,  he  has,"  said  Haley. 

"  Now,  ye  don't !  well,  reely,"  said  the  smith,  "  who  'd  a 
thought  it !  Why,  ye  need  n't  go  to  fetterin'  him  up  this  yer 
way.  He  's  the  faithfullest,  best  crittur  "  — 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Haley ;  "  but  your  good  fellers  are  just  the 
critturs  to  want  ter  run  off.  Them  stupid  ones,  as  does  n't  care 
whar  they  go,  and  shifless,  drunken  ones,  as  don't  care  for 
nothin',  they  '11  stick  by,  and  like  as  not  be  rather  pleased  to 
be  toted  round ;  but  these  yer  prime  fellers,  they  hates  it  like 
sin.  No  way  but  to  fetter  'em ;  got  legs  —  they  '11  use  'em, 
—  no  mistake." 

"  Well,"  said  the  smith,  feeling  among  his  tools,  "  them  plan 
tations  down  thar,  stranger,  an't  jest  the  place  a  Kentuck 


112  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

nigger   wants   to   go   to ;    they  dies   thar   tol'able   fast,    don't 
they?" 

"  Wai,  yes,  tol'able  fast,  ther  dying  is ;  what  with  the  'cli 
mating  and  one  thing  and  another,  they  dies  so  as  to  keep  the 
market  up  pretty  brisk,"  said  Haley. 

"  Wai,  now,  a  feller  can't  help  thinkin'  it 's  a  mighty  pity  to 
have  a  nice,  quiet,  likely  feller,  as  good  un  as  Tom  is,  go  down 
to  be  fairly  ground  up  on  one  of  them  ar  sugar  plantations." 

"  Wai,  he  's  got  a  fa'r  chance.  I  promised  to  do  well  by 
him.  I  '11  get  him  in  house-servant  in  some  good  old  family, 
and  then,  if  he  stands  the  fever,  and  'climating,  he  '11  have  a 
berth  good  as  any  nigger  ought  ter  ask  for." 

"  He  leaves  his  wife  and  chil'en  up  here,  s'pose  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  he  '11  get  another  thar.  Lord,  thar  's  women 
enough  everywhar,"  said  Haley. 

Tom  was  sitting  very  mournfully  on  the  outside  of  the  shop 
while  this  conversation  was  going  on.  Suddenly  he  heard  the 
quick,  short  click  of  a  horse's  hoof  behind  him ;  and,  before  he 
could  fairly  awake  from  his  surprise,  young  Master  George 
sprang  into  the  wagon,  threw  his  arms  tumultuously  round  his 
neck,  and  was  sobbing  and  scolding  with  energy. 

"  I  declare,  it 's  real  mean  !  I  don't  care  what  they  say,  any 
of  'em !  It 's  a  nasty,  mean  shame !  If  I  was  a  man,  they 
should  n't  do  it,  —  they  should  not,  so  f  "  said  George,  with  a 
kind  of  subdued  howl. 

"  Oh,  Mas'r  George  !  this  does  me  good  !  "  said  Tom.  "  I 
could  n't  bar  to  go  off  without  seein'  ye  !  It  does  me  real 
good,  ye  can't  tell !  "  Here  Tom  made  some  movement  of  his 
feet,  and  George's  eye  fell  on  the  fetters. 

"  What  a  shame !  "  he  exclaimed,  lifting  his  hands.  "  I  '11 
knock  that  old  fellow  down,  —  I  will !  " 

"No,  you  won't,  Mas'r  George;  and  you  must  not  talk  so 
loud.  It  won't  help  me  any,  to  anger  him." 

"  Well,  I  won't,  then,  for  your  sake ;  but  only  to  think  of  it, 
• —  is  n't  it  a  shame  ?  They  never  sent  for  me,  nor  sent  me  any 
word,  and,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  Tom  Lincon,  I  should  n't  have 
beard  it.  I  tell  you,  I  blew  'em  up  well,  all  of  'em,  at  home !  " 

"  That  ar  was  n't  right,  I  'm  'feared,  Mas'r  George." 

"  Can't  help  it !     I  say  it 's  a  shame !     Look  here,  Uncle 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  113 

Tom,"  said  he,  turning  his  back  to  the  shop,  and  speaking  in  a 
mysterious  tone,  "  /  've  brought  you  my  dollar  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  could  n't  think  o'  takin'  on  't,  Mas'r  George,  no  ways 
in  the  world !  "  said  Toni,  quite  moved. 

"  But  you  shall  take  it !  "  said  George  ;  "  look  here,  —  I  told 
Aunt  Chloe  I  'd  do  it,  and  she  advised  me  just  to  make  a  hole 
lin  it,  and  put  a  string  through,  so  you  could  hang  it  round  your 
'neck,  and  keep  it  out  of  sight ;  else  this  mean  scamp  would  take 
it  away.  I  tell  ye,  Tom,  I  want  to  blow  him  up !  it  would  do 
me  good !  " 

"  No,  don't,  Mas'r  George,  for  it  won't  do  me  any  good." 

"  Well,  I  won't,  for  your  sake,"  said  George,  busily  tying  his 
dollar  round  Tom's  neck ;  "  but  there,  now,  button  your  coat 
tight  over  it,  and  keep  it,  and  remember,  every  time  you  see  it, 
that  I  '11  come  down  after  you,  and  bring  you  back.  Aunt 
Chloe  and  I  have  been  talking  about  it.  I  told  her  not  to  fear ; 
I  '11  see  to  it,  and  I  '11  tease  father's  life  out,  if  he  don't  do  it." 

"  Oh,  Mas'r  George,  ye  must  n't  talk  so  'bout  yer  father !  " 

"  Lor,  Uncle  Tom,  I  don't  mean  anything  bad." 

"And  now,  Mas'r  George  "  said  Tom,  "ye  must  be  H  good 
boy  ;  'member  how  many  hearts  is  sot  on  ye.  Al'ays  keep  close 
to  yer  mother.  Don't  be  gettin'  into  any  of  them  foolish  ways 
boys  has  of  gettin'  too  big  to  mind  their  mothers.  Tell  ye  what, 
Mas'r  George,  the  Lord  gives  good  many  things  twice  over; 
but  he  don't  give  ye  a  mother  but  once.  Ye  '11  never  see  sich 
another  woman,  Mas'r  George,  if  ye  live  to  be  a  hundred  years 
old.  So,  now,  you  hold  on  to  her,  and  grow  up,  and  be  a  comfort 
to  her,  thar  's  my  own  good  boy,  —  you  will  now,  won't  ye  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will,  Uncle  Tom,"  said  George,  seriously. 

"And  be  careful  of  yer  speaking,  Mas'r  George.  Young 
boys,  when  they  comes  to  your  age,  is  wilful,  sometimes,  —  it 's 
natur  they  should  be.  But  real  gentlemen,  such  as  I  hopes 
you  '11  be,  never  lets  fall  no  words  that  is  n't  'spectful  to  thar 
parents.  Ye  an't  'fended,  Mas'r  George  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Uncle  Tom ;  you  always  did  give  me  good  ad 
vice." 

"  I 's  older,  ye  know,"  said  Tom,  stroking  the  boy's  fine,  curly 
head  with  his  large,  strong  hand,  but  speaking  in  a  voice  as  ten 
der  as  a  woman's,  "  and  I  sees  all  that 's  bound  up  in  you.  Oh, 


114  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

Mas'r  George,  you  has  everything,  —  1'arnin',  privileges,  readin', 
writin',  —  and  you  '11  grow  up  to  bt  ?  great,  learned,  good  man, 
and  all  the  people  on  the  place  ana  ^our  mother  and  father  '11 
be  so  proud  on  ye  !  Be  a  good  Mas'r,  like  yer  father ;  and  be 
a  Christian,  like  yer  mother.  'Member  yer  Creator  in  the  days 
'o  yer  youth,  Mas'r  George." 

"I'll  be  real  good,  Uncle  Tom,  I  tell  you,"  said  George. 
"  I  'm  going  to  be  a  first-rater  ;  and  don't  you  be  discouraged. 
I  '11  have  you  back  to  the  place,  yet.  As  I  told  Aunt  Chloe 
this  morning,  I  '11  build  your  house  all  over,  and  you  shall  have 
a  room  for  a  parlor  with  a  carpet  on  it,  when  I  'm  a  man.  Oh, 
you  '11  have  good  times  yet !  " 

Haley  now  came  to  the  door,  with  the  handcuffs  in  his  hands. 

"  Look  here,  now,  Mister,"  said  George,  with  an  air  of  great 
superiority,  as  he  got  out,  "  I  shall  let  father  and  mother  know 
how  you  treat  Uncle  Tom !  " 

"  You  're  welcome,"  said  the  trader. 

"  I  should  think  you  'd  be  ashamed  to  spend  all  your  life 
buying  men  and  women,  and  chaining  them,  like  cattle  !  I 
should  think  you  'd  feel  mean !  "  said  George. 

"  So  long  as  your  grand  folks  wants  to  buy  men  and  women, 
I  'm  as  good  as  they  is,"  said  Haley ;  "  't  an't  any  meaner  sellin' 
on  'em,  than  't  is  buyin' !  " 

"  I  '11  never  do  either,  when  I  'm  a  man,"  said  George ;  "  I  'm 
ashamed,  this  day,  that  I  'm  a  Kentuckian.  I  always  was  proud 
of  it  before ; "  and  George  sat  very  straight  on  his  horse,  and 
looked  round  with  an  air,  as  if  he  expected  the  state  would  be 
impressed  with  his  opinion. 

"  Wel^  pood-hy.  Uncle  Tom  ;  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip/'  said 
George. 

"  Good-by,  Mas'r  George,"  said  Tom,  looking  fondly  and 
admiringly  at  him.  "God  Almighty  bless  you !  Ah!  Ken 
tucky  han't  got  many  like  you !  "  he  said,  in  the  fulness  of  his 
heart,  as  the  frank,  boyish  face  was  lost  to  his  view.  Away  he 
went,  and  Tom  looked,  till  the  clatter  of  his  horse's  heels  died 
away,  the  last  sound  or  sight  of  his  home.  But  over  his  heart 
there  seemed  to  be  a  warm  spot,  where  those  young  hands  had 
placed  that  precious  dollar.  Tom  put  up  his  hand,  and  held  it 
close  to  his  heart. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  116 

"  Now,  I  tell  ye  what.  Tom,"  said  Haley,  as  he  came  up  to 
the  wagon,  and  threw  in  the  handcuffs,  "  I  mean  to  start  fa'r 
with  ye,  as  I  gen'ally  do  with  my  niggers  ;  and  I  '11  tell  ye  now, 
to  begin  with,  you  treat  me  fa'r,  and  I  '11  treat  you  fa'r  ;  I  an't 
never  hard  on  my  niggers.  Calculates  to  do  the  best  for  'em  I 
can.  Now,  ye  see,  you  'd  better  jest  settle  down  comfortable, 
and  not  be  tryin'  no  tricks ;  because  nigger's  tricks  of  all  sorts 
I  'm  up  to,  and  it 's  no  use.  If  niggers  is  quiet,  and  don't  try 
to  get  off,  they  has  good  tunes  with  me  ;  and  if  they  don't,  why, 
it 's  thar  fault,  and  not  mine." 

Tom  assured  Haley  that  he  had  no  present  intentions  of  run 
ning  off  In  fact,  the  exhortation  seemed  rather  a  superfluous 
one  to  a  man  with  a  great  pair  of  iron  fetters  on  his  feet.  But 
Mr.  Haley  had  got  in  the  habit  of  commencing  his  relations  with 
his  stock  with  little  exhortations  of  this  nature,  calculated,  as  he 
deemed,  to  inspire  cheerfulness  and  confidence,  and  prevent  the 
necessity  of  any  unpleasant  scenes. 

And  here,  for  the  present,  we  take  our  leave  of  Tom,  to  pursue 
the  fortunes  of  other  characters  in  our  story. 


116  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:   Ofc. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IN  WHICH  PROPERTY  GETS  INTO  AN  IMPROPER  STATE  OF  MIND. 

IT  was  late  in  a  drizzly  afternoon  that  a  traveller  alighted  at 

the  door  of  a  small  country  hotel,  in  the  village  of  N ,  in 

Kentucky.  In  the  bar-room  he  found  assembled  quite  a  miscel 
laneous  company,  whom  stress  of  weather  had  driven  to  harbor, 
and  the  place  presented  the  usual  scenery  of  such  reuniops. 
Great,  tall,  raw-boned  Kentuckians,  attired  in  hunting-shirts,  and 
trailing  their  loose  joints  over  a  vast  extent  of  territory,  with 
the  easy  lounge  peculiar  to  the  race,  —  rifles  stacked  avvay  in 
the  corner,  shot-pouches,  game-bags,  hunting-dogs,  and  little 
negroes,  all  rolled  together  in  the  corners,  —  were  the  charac 
teristic  features  in  the  picture.  At  each  end  of  the  fireplace  sat 
a  long-legged  gentleman,  with  his  chair  tipped  back,  his  hat  on 
his  head,  and  the  heels  of  his  muddy  boots  reposing  sublimely 
on  the  mantel-piece,  —  a  position,  we  will  inform  our  readers, 
decidedly  favorable  to  the  turn  of  reflection  incident  to  western 
taverns,  where  travellers  exhibit  a  decided  preference  for  this 
particular  mode  of  elevating  their  understandings. 

Mine  host,  who  stood  behind  the  bar,  like  most  of  his  country 
men,  was  great  of  stature,  good-natured,  and  loose-jointerl,  with 
an  enormous  shock  of  hair  on  his  head,  and  a  great  tall  hat  on 
the  top  of  that. 

In  fact,  everybody  in  the  room  bore  on  his  head  this  char 
acteristic  emblem  of  man's  sovereignty ;  whether  it  were  felt 
hat,  palm-leaf,  greasy  beaver,  or  fine  new  chapeau,  there  it  re 
posed  with  true  republican  independence.  In  truth,  it  appeared 
to  be  the  characteristic  mark  of  every  individual.  Some  wore 
them  tipped  rakishly  to  one  side,  —  theso  were  your  men  of 
humor,  jolly,  free-and-easy  dogs  ;  some  had  them  jammed  in 
dependently  down  over  their  noses,  —  these  were  your  hard 
characters,  thorough  men,  who,  when  they  wore  their  hats, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  117 

wanted  to  wear  them,  and  to  wear  them  just  as  they  had  a 
mind  to  ;  there  were  those  who  had  them  set  far  over  back,  — 
wide-awake  men,  \vho  wanted  a  clear  prospect ;  while  careless 
men,  who  did  not  know,  or  care,  how  their  hats  sat,  had  them 
shaking  about  in  all  directions.  The  various  hats,  in  fact,  were 
quite  a  Shakespearian  study. 

Divers  negroes,  in  very  free-and-easy  pantaloons,  and  with 
no  redundancy  in  the  shirt  line,  were  scuttling  about,  hither 
and  thither,  without  bringing  to  pass  any  very  particular  re 
sults,  except  expressing  a  generic  willingness  to  turn  over  every 
thing  in  creation  generally  for  the  benefit  of  Mas'r  and  his 
guests.  Add  to  this  picture  a  jolly,  crackling,  rollicking  fire, 
going  rejoicingly  up  a  great  wide  chimney,  —  the  outer  door 
and  every  window  being  set  wide  open,  and  the  calico  window- 
curtain  flopping  and  snapping  in  a  good  stiff  breeze  of  damp 
raw  air,  —  and  you  have  an  idea  of  the  jollities  of  a  Kentucky 
tavern.  * 

Your  Kentuckian  of  the  present  day  is  a  good  illustration  of 
the  doctrine  of  transmitted  instincts  and  peculiarities.  His 
fathers  were  mighty  hunters,  —  men  who  lived  in  the  woods, 
and  slept  under  the  free,  open  heavens,  with  the  stars  to  hold 
their  candles  ;  and  their  descendant  to  this  day  always  acts  as 
if  the  house  were  his  camp,  —  wears  his  hat  at  all  hours,  tum 
bles  himself  about,  and  puts  his  heels  on  the  tops  of  chairs  or 
mantel-pieces,  just  as  his  father  rolled  on  the  greensward,  and 
put  his  upon  trees  and  logs,  —  keeps  all  the  windows  and  doors 
open,  winter  and  summer,  that  he  may  get  air  enough  for  his 
great  lungs,  —  calls  everybody  "  stranger,"  with  nonchalant 
bonhomie,  and  is  altogether  the  frankest,  easiest,  most  jovial 
creature  living. 

Into  such  an  assembly  of  the  free  and  easy  our  traveller  en 
tered.  He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  carefully  dressed,  with  a 
round,  good-natured  countenance,  and  something  rather  fussy 
and  particular  in  his  appearance.  He  was  very  careful  of  his 
valise  and  umbrella,  bringing  them  in  with  his  own  hands,  and 
resisting,  pertinaciously,  all  offers  from  the  various  servants  to 
relieve  him  of  them.  He  looked  round  the  bar-room  with  rather 
an  anxious  air,  and,  retreating  with  his  valuables  to  the  warmest 
corner,  disposed  them  under  his  chair,  sat  down,  and  looked 


118  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

rather  apprehensively  up  at  the  worthy  whose  heels  illustrated 
the  end  of  the  mantel-piece,  who  was  spitting  from  right  to  left, 
with  a  courage  and  energy  rather  alarming  to  gentlemen  of  weak 
nerves  and  particular  habits. 

"  I  say,  stranger,  how  are  ye  ?  "  said  the  aforesaid  gentleman, 
firing  an  honorary  salute  of  tobacco-juice  in  the  direction  of  the 
new  arrival. 

"  Well,  I  reckon,"  was  the  reply  of  the  other,  as  he  dodged; 
with  some  alarm,  the  threatening  honor. 

"  Any  news  ?  "  said  the  respondent,  taking  out  a  strip  of  to 
bacco  and  a  large  hunting-knife  from  his  pocket. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  the  man. 

"  Chaw  ?  "  said  the  first  speaker,  handing  the  old  gentleman 
a  bit  of  his  tobacco,  with  a  decidedly  brotherly  air. 

"  No,  thank  ye,  — it  don't  agree  with  me,"  said  the  little  man, 
edging  off. 

"  Don't,  eh  ?  "  said  the  other,  easily,  and  stowing  away  the 
morsel  in  his  own  mouth,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  supply  of 
tpbacco-juice,  for  the  general  benefit  of  society. 

The  old  gentleman  uniformly  gave  a  little  start  whenever 
his  long-sided  brother  fired  in  his  direction  ;  and  this  being  ob 
served  by  his  companion,  he  very  good-naturedly  turned  his 
artillery  to  another  quarter,  and  proceeded  to  storm  one  of  the 
fire-irons  with  a  degree  of  military  talent  fully  sufficient  to  take 
Na  city. 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  said  the  old  gentleman,  observing  some  of 
the  company  formed  in  a  group  around  a  large  handbill. 

"  Nigger  advertised !  "  said  one  of  the  company,  briefly. 

Mr.  Wilson,  for  that  was  the  old  gentleman's  name,  rose  up, 
and,  after  carefully  adjusting  his  valise  and  umbrella,  proceeded 
deliberately  to  take  out  his  spectacles  and  fix  them  on  his  nose ; 
and,  this  operation  being  performed,  read  as  follows  :  — 

"Ran  away  from  the  subscriber,  my  mulatto  boy,  George.  Said 
George  six  feet  in  height,  a  very  light  mulatto,  brown  curly  hair  ; 
is  very  intelligent,  speaks  handsomely,  can  read  and  write  ;  will 
probably  try  to  pass  for  a  white  man  ;  is  deeply  scarred  on  his  back 
and  shoulders  ;  has  been  branded  in  his  right  hand  with  tlie  let 
ter  H. 

"  I  will  give  four  hundred  dollars  for  him  alive,  and  the  same  sun 
for  satisfactory  proof  that  he  has  been  killed." 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  119 

The  old  gentleman  read  this  advertisement  from  end  to  end, 
in  a  low  voice,  as  if  he  were  studying  it. 

The  long-legged  veteran,  who  had  been  besieging  the  fire-iron, 
as  before  related,  now  took  down  his  cumbrous  length,  and  rear 
ing  aloft  his  tall  form,  walked  up  to  the  advertisement,  and  very 
deliberately  spit  a  full  discharge  of  tobacco-juice  on  it. 

"  There  's  my  mind  upon  that !  "  said  he,  briefly,  and  sat 
down  again. 

"  Why,  now,  stranger,  what 's  that  for  ?  "  said  mine  host. 

"  I  'd  do  it  all  the  same  to  the  writer  of  that  ar  paper,  if  he 
was  here,"  said  the  long  man,  coolly  resuming  his  old  employ, 
ment  of  cutting  tobacco.  "  Any  man  that  owns  a  boy  like  that, 
and  can't  find  any  better  way  o'  treating  him,  deserves  to  lose 
him.  Such  papers  as  these  is  a  shame  to  Kentucky  ;  that 's  my 
mind  right  out,  if  anybody  wants  to  know !  " 

"  Well,  now,  that 's  a  fact,"  said  mine  host,  as  he  made  an 
entry  in  his  book. 

"  I  've  got  a  gang  of  boys,  sir,"  said  the  long  man,  resuming 
his  attack  on  the  fire-irons,  "  and  I  jest  tells  'em,  — <  Boys,' 
says  I,  — '  run  now  !  dig  !  put !  jest  when  ye  want  to  !  I 
never  shall  come  to  look  after  you  ! '  That 's  the  way  I  keep 
mine.  Let  'em  know  they  are  free  to  run  any  time,  and  it  jest 
breaks  up  their  wanting  to.  More  'n  all,  I  've  got  free  papers 
for  'em  all  recorded,  in  case  I  gets  keeled  up  any  o'  these  times, 
and  they  knows  it ;  and  I  tell  ye,  stranger,  there  an't  a  fellow 
in  our  parts  gets  more  out  of  his  niggers  than  I  do.  Why,  my 
boys  have  been  to  Cincinnati,  with  five  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  colts,  and  brought  me  back  the  money,  all  straight,  time  and 
agin.  It  stands  to  reason  they  should.  Treat  'em  like  dogs, 
and  you  'L  nave  dogs'  works  and  dogs'  actions.  Treat  'em  like 
men,  and  yen  '11  have  men's  works."  And  the  honest  drover, 
in  his  warmth,  indorsed  this  moral  sentiment  by  firing  a  perfect 
feu  de  joie  at  the  fireplace. 

"  I  think  you  're  altogether  right,  friend,"  said  Mr.  Wilson  : 
"  and  this  boy  described  here  is  a  fine  fellow,  —  no  mistake 
about  that.  He  worked  for  me  some  half-dozen  years  in  my 
bagging  factory,  and  he  was  my  best  hand,  sir.  He  is  an  in 
genious  fellow,  too :  he  invented  a  machine  for  the  cleaning  of 
hemp,  —  a  really  valuable  affair ;  it 's  gone  into  several  facto 
ries.  His  master  holds  the  patent  of  it." 


120  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

"I'll  warrant  ye,"  said  the  drover,  "holds  it  and  makes 
money  out  of  it,  and  then  turns  round  and  brands  the  boy  in 
his  right  hand.  If  I  had  a  fair  chance,  I  'd  mark  him,  I  reckon, 
so  that  he  'd  carry  it  one  while." 

"  These  yer  knowiii'  boys  is  allers  aggravatin'  and  sarcy," 
said  a  coarse-looking  fellow,  from  the  other  side  of  the  room  ; 
"  that 's  why  they  gets  cut  up  and  marked  so.  If  they  behaved 
themselves,  they  would  n't." 

"  That  is  to  say,  the  Lord  made  'em  men,  and  it 's  a  hard 
squeeze  getting  'em  down  into  beasts,"  said  the  drover,  dryly. 

"  Bright  niggers  is  n't  no  kind  of  Vantage  to  their  masters,' 
continued  the  other,  well  intrenched,  in  a  coarse,  unconscious 
obtuseness,  from  the  contempt  of  his  opponent ;  "  what 's  the 
use  o'  talents  and  them  things,  if  you  can't  get  the  use  en  'em 
yourself  ?  Why,  all  the  use  they  make  on  't  is  to  get  round 
you.  I  've  had  one  or  two  of  these  fellers,  and  I  jest  sold  'em 
down  river.  I  knew  I  'd  got  to  lose  'em,  first  or  last,  if  I 
did  n't." 

"  Better  send  orders  up  to  the  Lord,  to  make  you  a  set,  and 
leave  out  their  souls  entirely,"  said  the  drover. 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  a 
small  one-horse  buggy  to  the  inn.  It  had  a  genteel  appearance, 
and  a  well-dressed,  gentlemanly  man  sat  on  the  seat,  with  a 
colored  servant  driving. 

The  whole  party  examined  the  new-comer  with  the  interest 
with  which  a  set  of  loafers  in  a  rainy  day  usually  examine  every 
new-comer.  He  was  very  tall,  with  a  dark,  Spanish  complex 
ion,  fine,  expressive  black  eyes,  and  close-curling  hair,  also  of  a 
glossy  blackness.  His  well-formed  aquiline  nose,  straight  tliin 
lips,  and  the  admirable  contour  of  his  finely  formed  limbs,  im 
pressed  the  whole  company  instantly  with  the  idea  of  something 
uncommon.  He  walked  easily  in  among  the  company,  and 
with  a  nod  indicated  to  his  waiter  where  to  place  his  trunk, 
bowed  to  the  company,  and,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  walked 
up  leisurely  to  the  bar,  and  gave  in  his  name  as  Henry  Butler, 
Oaklands,  Shelby  County.  Turning,  with  an  indifferent  air,  he 
sauntered  up  to  the  advertisement,  and  read  it  over. 

"  Jim,"  he  said  to  his  man,  "  seems  to  me  we  met  a  boy 
something  like  this,  up  at  Bernan's,  did  n't  we  ?  " 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  121 

"  Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Jim,  "  only  I  an't  sure  about  the  hand." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  look,  of  course,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a 
careless  yawn.  Then,  walking  up  to  the  landlord,  he  desired 
him  to  furnish  him  with  a  private  apartment,  as  he  had  some 
writing  to  do  immediately. 

The  landlord  was  all  obsequious,  and  a  relay  of  about  seven 
negroes,  old  and  young,  male  and  female,  little  and  big,  were 
soon  whizzing  about,  like  a  covey  of  partridges,  bustling,  hurry 
ing,  treading  on  each  other's  toes,  and  tumbling  over  each  other, 
in  their  zeal  to  get  Mas'r's  room  ready,  while  he  seated  himseli 
easily  on  a  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  entered  into 
conversation  with  the  man  who  sat  next  to  him. 

The  manufacturer,  Mr.  Wilson,  from  the  time  of  the  entrance 
of  the  stranger,  had  regarded  him  with  an  air  of  disturbed  and 
uneasy  curiosity.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  have  met  and  been 
acquainted  with  him  somewhere,  but  he  could  not  recollect. 
Every  few  moments,  when  the  man  spoke,  or  moved,  or  smiled, 
he  would  start  and  fix  his  eyes  on  him,  and  then  suddenly  with 
draw  them,  as  the  bright,  dark  eyes  met  his  with  such  uncon 
cerned  coolness.  At  last,  a  sudden  recollection  seemed  to  flash 
upon  him,  for  he  stared  at  the  stranger  with  such  an  air  of 
blank  amazement  and  alarm,  that  he  walked  up  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Wilson,  I  think,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  recognition,  and 
extending  his  hand.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  n't  recollect 
you  before.  I  see  you  remember  me,  —  Mr.  Butler,  of  Oak- 
lands,  Shelby  County." 

"  Ye  —  yes  —  yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Wilson,  like  one  speaking 
in  a  dream. 

Just  then  a  negro  boy  entered,  and  announced  that  Mas'r's 
room  was  ready. 

"  Jim,  see  to  the  trunks,"  said  the  gentleman,  negligently  ; 
then  addressing  himself  to  Mr.  Wilson,  he  added,  —  "I  should 
like  to  have  a  few  moments'  conversation  with  you  on  business, 
in  my  room,  if  you  please." 

Mr.  Wilson  followed  him,  as  one  who  walks  in  his  sleep  ;  and 
they  proceeded  to  a  large  upper  chamber,  where  a  new-made 
fire  was  crackling,  and  various  servants  flying  about,  putting  fin 
ishing  touches  to  the  arrangements. 

When  all  was  done,  and  the  servants  departed,  the  young 


122  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

man  deliberately  locked  the  door,  and  putting  the  key  in  hii 
pocket,  faced  about,  and  folding  his  arras  on  his  bosom,  looked 
Mr.  Wilson  full  in  the  face. 

"  George  !  "  said  Mr.  Wilson. 

"  Yes,  George,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  I  could  n't  have  thought  it !  " 

"  I  am  pretty  well  disguised,  I  fancy,"  said  the  young  man, 
with  a  smile.  "  A  little  walnut  bark  has  made  my  yellow  skin 
a  genteel  brown,  and  I  've  dyed  my  hair  black  ;  so  you  see  I 
don't  answer  to  the  advertisement  at  all." 

"  Oh,  George  !  but  this  is  a  dangerous  game  you  are  playing. 
I  could  not  have  advised  you  to  it." 

"  I  can  do  it  on  my  own  responsibility,"  said  George,  with 
the  same  proud  smile. 

We  remark,  en  passant,  that  George  was,  by  his  father's  side, 
of  white  descent.  His  mother  was  one  of  those  unfortunates  of 
her  race,  marked  out  by  personal  beauty  to  be  the  slave  of  the 
passions  of  her  possessor,  and  the  mother  of  children  who  may 
never  know  a  father.  From  one  of  the  proudest  families  in 
Kentucky  he  had  inherited  a  set  of  fine  European  features,  and 
a  high,  indomitable  spirit.  From  his  mother  he  had  received 
only  a  slight  mulatto  tinge,  amply  compensated  by  its  accom 
panying  rich,  dark  eye.  A  slight  change  in  the  tint  of  the  skin 
and  the  color  of  his  hair  had  metamorphosed  him  into  the 
Spanish-looking  fellow  he  then  appeared  ;  and  as  gracefulness  of 
movement  and  gentlemanly  manners  had  always  been  perfectly 
natural  to  him,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  playing  the  bold  part  he 
had  adopted,  —  that  of  a  gentleman  travelling  with  his  domestic. 

Mr.  Wilson,  a  good-natured  but  extremely  fidgety  and  cautious 
old  gentleman,  ambled  up  and  down  the  room,  appearing,  as 
John  Bunyan  hath  it,  "  much  tumbled  up  and  down  in  his 
mind,"  and  divided  between  his  wish  to  help  George,  and  a  cer 
tain  confused  notion  of  maintaining  law  and  order  :  so,  as  he 
shambled  about,  he  delivered  himself  as  follows  :  — 

"  Well,  George,  I  s'pose  you  're  running  away,  — leaving  your 
lawful  master,  George,  —  (I  don't  wonder  at  it),  — at  the  same 
time,  I  'm  sorry,  George,  —  yes,  decidedly,  —  I  think  I  must 
say  that,  George,  —  it 's  my  duty  to  tell  you  so." 

"  Why  are  you  sorry,  sir  ?  "  said  George,  calmJy. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  128 

"  Why,  to  see  you,  as  it  were,  setting  yourself  in  opposition 
fco  the  laws  of  your  country." 

"  My  country  !  "  said  George,  with  a  strong  and  bitter  em 
phasis  ;  "  what  country  have  I,  but  the  grave,  —  and  I  wish  to 
God  that  I  was  laid  there  !  " 

"  Why,  George,  no,  —  no,  —  it  won't  do  ;  this  way  of  talk 
ing  is  wicked,  —  unscriptural.  George,  you  've  got  a  hard 
master,  —  in  fact,  he  is  —  well,  he  conducts  himself  reprehensi- 
bly,  —  I  can't  pretend  to  defend  him.  But  you  know  how  the 
angel  commanded  Hagar  to  return  to  her  mistress,  and  submit 
herself  under  her  hand  ;  and  the  apostle  sent  back  Onesimus  to 
his  master." 

"  Don't  quote  Bible  at  me  that  way,  Mr.  Wilson,"  said 
George,  with  a  flashing  eye,  "  don't !  for  my  wife  is  a  Chris 
tian,  and  I  mean  to  be,  if  ever  I  get  to  where  I  can ;  but  to 
quote  Bible  to  a  fellow  in  my  circumstances  is  enough  to  make 
him  give  it  up  altogether.  I  appeal  to  God  Almighty,  —  I  'm 
willing  to  go  with  the  case  to  him,  and  ask  him  if  I  do  wrong  to 
seek  my  freedom." 

"  These  feelings  are  quite  natural,  George,"  said  the  good- 
natured  man,  blowing  his  nose.  "  Yes,  they  're  natural,  but  it 
is  my  duty  not  to  encourage  'em  in  you.  Yes,  my  boy,  I  'm 
sorry  for  you,  now ;  it 's  a  bad  case,  —  very  bad  ;  but  the 
apostle  says,  t  Let  every  one  abide  in  the  condition  in  which  he 
is  called.'  We  must  all  submit  to  the  indications  of  Providence, 
George,  —  don't  you  see  ?  " 

George  stood  with  his  head  drawn  back,  his  arms  folded 
tightly  over  his  broad  breast,  and  a  bitter  smile  curling  his  lips. 

"  I  wonder,  Mr.  Wilson,  if  the  Indians  should  come  and 
take  you  a  prisoner  away  from  your  wife  and  children,  and 
want  to  keep  you  all  your  life  hoeing  corn  for  them,  if  you  'd 
think  it  your  duty  to  abide  in  the  condition  in  which  you  were 
called.  I  rather  think  that  you  'd  think  the  first  stray  horse 
you  could  find  an  indication  of  Providence,  —  should  n't  you  ?  " 

The  little  old  gentleman  stared  with  both  eyes  at  this  illus 
tration  of  the  case  ;  but,  though  not  much  of  a  reasoner,  he  had 
the  sense  in  which  some  logicians  on  this  particular  subject  do 
not  excel,  —  that  of  saying  nothing,  where  nothing  could  be 
said.  So,  as  he  stood  carefully  stroking  his  umbrella,  and  fold- 


124  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

ing  and  patting  down  all  the  creases  in  it,  he  proceeded  on  with 
his  exhortations  in  a  general  way. 

"  You  see,  George,  you  know,  now,  I  always  have  stood  your 
friend ;  and  whatever  I  've  said,  I  've  said  for  your  good.  Now, 
here,  it  seems  to  me,  you  're  running  an  awful  risk.  You  can't 
hope  to  carry  it  out.  If  you  're  taken,  it  will  be  worse  with 
you  than  ever ;  they  '11  only  abuse  you,  and  half  kill  you,  and 
sell  you  down  river." 

"  Mr.  Wilson,  I  know  all  this,"  said  George.  "  I  do  run  a 
risk,  but  "  —  he  threw  open  his  overcoat,  and  showed  two  pis 
tols  and  a  bowie-knife.  "  There  !  "  he  said  ;  "  I  'm  ready  for 
'em  !  Down  south  I  never  will  go.  No  !  if  it  comes  to  that,  I 
can  earn  myself  at  least  six  feet  of  free  soil,  —  the  first  and  last 
I  shall  ever  own  in  Kentucky !  " 

"  Why,  George,  this  state  of  mind  is  awful ;  it 's  getting 
really  desperate,  George.  I  'm  concerned.  Going  to  break  the 
laws  of  your  country  !  " 

"  MY  country  again  !  Mr.  Wilson,  you  have  a  country  ;  but 
what  country  have  J,  or  any  one  like  me,  born  of  slave  mothers  ? 
What  laws  are  there  for  us  ?  We  don't  make  them,  —  we  don't 
consent  to  them,  —  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  ;  all  they 
do  for  us  is  to  crush  us,  and  keep  us  down.  Have  n't  I  heard 
your  Fourth-of-July  speeches  ?  Don't  you  tell  us  all,  once  a 
year,  that  governments  derive  their  just  power  from  the  consent 
of  the  governed  ?  Can't  a  fellow  think,  that  hears  such  things  ? 
Can't  he  put  this  and  that  together,  and  see  what  it  comes  to  ?  " 

Mr.  Wilson's  mind  was  one  of  those  that  may  not  unaptly  be 
represented  by  a  bale  of  cotton,  —  downy,  soft,  benevolently 
fuzzy  and  confused.  He  really  pitied  George  with  all  his  heart, 
and  had  a  sort  of  dim  and  cloudy  perception  of  the  style  of  feel 
ing  that  agitated  him  ;  but  he  deemed  it  his  duty  to  go  on  talk' 
ing  good  to  him,  with  infinite  pertinacity. 

"  George,  this  is  bad.  I  must  tell  you,  you  know,  as  a  friend, 
you  'd  better  not  be  meddling  with  such  notions  ;  they  are  bad, 
George,  very  bad,  for  boys  in  your  condition,  —  very ;  "  and 
Mr.  Wilson  sat  down  to  a  table,  and  began  nervously  chewing 
the  handle  of  his  umbrella. 

"  See  here,  now,  Mr.  Wilson,"  said  George,  coming  up  and 
seating  himself  determinately  down  in  front  of  him ;  "  look  at 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  125 

me,  now.  Don't  I  sit  before  you,  every  way,  just  as  much  a 
man  as  you  are  ?  Look  at  my  face,  —  look  at  my  hands,  — 
look  at  my  body,"  and  the  young  man  drew  himself  up  proudly ; 
"  why  am  I  not  a  man,  as  much  as  anybody  ?  Well,  Mr.  Wil 
son,  hear  what  I  can  tell  you.  I  had  a  father  —  one  of  your 
Kentucky  gentlemen  —  who  did  n't  think  enough  of  me  to  keep 
me  from  being  sold  with  his  dogs  and  horses,  to  satisfy  the 
estate,  when  he  died.  I  saw  my  mother  put  up  at  sheriff's  sale, 
with  her  seven  children.  They  were  sold  before  her  eyes,  one 
by  one,  all  to  different  masters  ;  and  I  was  the  youngest.  She 
came  and  kneeled  down  before  old  Mas'r,  and.  begged  him  to 
buy  her  with  me,  that  she  might  have  at  least  one  child  with 
her ;  and  he  kicked  her  away  with  his  heavy  boot.  I  saw  him 
do  it ;  and  the  last  that  I  heard  was  her  moans  and  screams, 
when  I  was  tied  to  his  horse's  neck,  to  be  carried  off  to  his 
place." 

"Well,  then?" 

"  My  master  traded  with  one  of  the  men,  and  bought  my 
oldest  sister.  She  was  a  pious,  good  girl,  —  a  member  of  the 
Baptist  Church,  —  and  as  handsome  as  my  poor  mother  had 
been.  She  was  well  brought  up,  and  had  good  manners.  At 
first,  I  was  glad  she  was  bought,  for  I  had  one  friend  near  me. 
I  was  soon  sorry  for  it.  Sir,  I  have  stood  at  the  door  and 
heard  her  whipped,  when  it  seemed  as  if  every  blow  cut  into 
my  naked  heart,  and  I  could  n't  do  anything  to  help  her ;  and 
she  was  whipped,  sir,  for  wanting  to  live  a  decent  Christum 
life,  such  as  your  laws  give  no  slave  girl  a  right  to  live  ;  and  at 
last  I  saw  her  chained  with  a  trader's  gang,  to  be  sent  to  mar^ 
ket  in  Orleans,  —  sent  there  for  nothing  else  but  that,  — -  and 
that 's  the  last  I  know  of  her.  Well,  I  grew  up,  —  long  years 
and  years,  —  no  father,  no  mother,  no  sister,  not  a  living  soul 
that  cared  for  me  more  than  a  dog;  nothing  but  whipping, 
scolding,  starving.  Why,  sir,  I  've  been  so  hungry  that  I  have 
been  glad  to  take  the  bones  they  threw  to  their  dogs ;  and  yet, 
when  I  was  a  little  fellow,  and  laid  awake  whole  nights  and 
cried,  it  was  n't  the  hunger,  it  was  n't  the  whipping,  I  cried  for. 
No,  sir ;  it  was  for  my  mother  and  my  sisters,  —  it  was  because 
I  had  n't  a  friend  to  love  me  on  earth.  I  never  knew  what 
peace  or  comfort  was.  I  never  had  a  kind  word  spoken  to  me 


126  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;  OK, 

till  I  came  to  work  in  your  factory.  Mr.  Wilson,  you  treated 
me  well ;  you  encouraged  me  to  do  well,  and  to  learn  to  read 
and  write,  and  to  try  to  make  something  of  myself ;  and  God 
knows  how  grateful  I  am  for  it.  Then,  sir,  I  found  my  wife  ; 
you  've  seen  her,  —  you  know  how  beautiful  she  is.  When  I 
found  she  loved  me,  when  I  married  her,  I  scarcely  could  be 
lieve  I  was  alive,  I  was  so  happy ;  and,  sir,  she  is  as  good  as 
she  is  beautiful.  But  now  what  ?  Why.  now  comes  my  master, 
takes  me  right  away  from  my  work,  and  my  friends,  raid  all  I 
like,  and  grinds  me  down  into  the  very  dirt !  And  why  ?  Be 
cause,  he  says,  I  forgot  who  I  was  ;  he  says,  to  teach  me  that  I 
am  only  a  nigger !  After  all,  and  last  of  all,  he  comes  between 
me  and  my  wife,  and  says  I  shall  give  her  up,  and  live  with 
another  woman.  And  all  this  your  laws  give  him  power  to  do, 
in  spite  of  God  or  man.  Mr.  Wilson,  look  at  it !  There  is  n't 
one  of  all  these  things,  that  have  broken  the  hearts  of  my  mother 
and  my  sister,  and  my  wife  and  myself,  but  your  laws  allow, 
and  give  every  man  power  to  do,  in  Kentucky,  and  none  can  say 
to  him  nay !  Do  you  call  these  the  laws  of  my  country  ?  Sir, 
I  have  n't  any  country,  any  more  than  I  have  any  father.  But 
I  'm  going  to  have  one.  I  don't  want  anything  of  your  country, 
except  to  be  let  alone,  —  to  go  peaceably  out  of  it ;  and  when  I 
get  to  Canada,  where  the  laws  will  own  me  and  protect  me,  that 
shall  be  my  country,  and  its  laws  I  will  obey.  But  if  any  man 
tries  to  stop  me,  let  him  take  care,  for  I  am  desperate.  I  '11 
fight  for  my  liberty  to  the  last  breath  I  breathe.  You  say  your 
fathers  did  it ;  if  it  was  right  for  them,  it  is  right  for- me  !  " 

This  speech,  delivered  partly  while  sitting  at  the  table,  and 
partly  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  —  delivered  with  tears 
and  flashing  eyes,  and  despairing  gestures,  —  was  altogether  too 
much  for  the  good-natured  old  body  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
who  had  pulled  out  a  great  yellow  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
was  mopping  up  his  face  with  great  energy. 

"  Blast  'em  all !  "  he  suddenly  broke  out.  "  Have  n't  I  al 
ways  said  so,  —  the  infernal  old  cusses  !  I  hope  I  an't  swear 
ing,  now.  Well !  go  ahead,  George,  go  ahead  ;  but  be  careful, 
my  boy  ;  don't  shoot  anybody,  George,  unless  —  well  —  you  'd 
better  not  shoot,  I  reckon ;  at  least,  I  would  n't  hit  anybody, 
you  know.  Where  is  your  wife,  George  ?  "  he  added,  as  ho 
nervously  rose,  and  began  walking  the  room* 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  127 

"  Gone,  sir,  gone,  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  the  Lord  only 
knows  where  ;  —  gone  after  the  north  star  ;  and  when  we  ever 
meet,  or  whether  we  meet  at  all  in  this  world,  no  creature  can 
tell." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  astonishing  !  from  such  a  kind  family  ?  " 

"  Kind  families  get  in  debt,  and  the  laws  of  our  country  allow 
them  to  sell  the  child  out  of  its  mother's  bosom  to  pay  its  mas 
ter's  debts,"  said  George,  bitterly. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  honest  old  man,  fumbling  in  his 
pocket.  "  I  s'pose,  perhaps,  I  an't  following  my  judgment,  — 
hang  it,  I  won't  follow  my  judgment !  "  he  added,  suddenly  ; 
"  so  here,  George,"  and  taking  out  a  roll  of  bills  from  his 
pocket-book,  he  offered  them  to  George. 

"No,  my  kind,  good  sir!"  said  George,  "you've  done  a 
great  deal  for  me,  and  this  might  get  you  into  trouble.  I  have 
money  enough,  I  hope,  to  take  me  as  far  as  I  need  it." 

"  No  ;  but  you  must,  George.  Money  is  a  great  help  every 
where  ;•  — can't  have  too  much,  if  you  get  it  honestly.  Take  it, 
—  do  take  it,  now,  —  do,  my  boy  !  " 

"  On  condition,  sir,  that  I  may  repay  it  at  some  future  time, 
I  will,"  said  George,  taking  up  the  money. 

"  And  now,  George,  how  long  are  you  going  to  travel  in  this 
way  ?  —  not  long  or  far,  I  hope.  It 's  well  carried  on,  but  too 
bold.  And  this  black  fellow,  —  who  is  he  ?  " 

"  A  true  fellow,  who  went  to  Canada  more  than  a  year  ago. 
He  heard,  after  he  got  there,  that  his  master  was  so  angry  at 
him  for  going  off  that  he  had  whipped  his  poor  old  mother ;  and 
he  has  come  all  the  way  back  to  comfort  her,  and  get  a  chance 
to  get  her  away." 

"  Has  he  got  her  ?  " 

"  Not  yet ;  he  has  been  hanging  about  the  place,  and  found 
no  chance  yet.  Meanwhile,  he  is  going  with  me  as  far  as 
Ohio,  to  put  me  among  friends  that  helped  him,  and  then  he 
will  come  back  after  her." 

"  Dangerous,  very  dangerous  !  "  said  the  old  man. 

George  drew  himself  up.  and  smiled  disdainfully. 

The  old  gentleman  eyed  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  a  sort 
of  innocent  wonder. 

"  George,  something  has  brought  you  out  wonderfully.     You 


128  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

hold  up  your  head,  and  speak  and  move  like  another  man,"  said 
Mr.  Wilson. 

"  Because  I  'm  a  free  man  !  "  said  George,  proudly.  "  Yes, 
sir  ;  I  've  said  Mas'r  for  the  last  time  to  any  man.  /  'mfree  !  " 

"  Take  care  !     You  are  not  sure,  —  you  may  be  taken." 

"  All  men  are  free  and  equal  in  the  grave,  if  it  comes  to  that, 
Mr.  Wilson,"  said  George. 

"  I  'm  perfectly  dumfoundered  with  your  boldness  !  "  said 
Mr.  Wilson,  —  "to  come  right  here  to  the  nearest  tavern  !  " 

"  Mr.  Wilson,  it  is  so  bold,  and  this  tavern  is  so  near,  that 
they  will  never  think  of  it ;  they  will  look  for  me  on  ahead, 
and  you  yourself  would  n't  know  me.  Jim's  master  don't  live 
in  this  county ;  he  is  n't  known  in  these  parts.  Besides,  he  is 
given  up  ;  nobody  is  looking  after  him,  and  nobody  will  take  me 
up  from  the  advertisement,  I  think." 

"  But  the  mark  on  your  hand  ?  " 

George  drew  off  his  glove,  and  showed  a  newly  healed  scar 
in  his  hand. 

"  That  is  a  parting  proof  of  Mr.  Harris's  regard,"  he  said 
scornfully.  "  A  fortnight  ago,  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  give 
it  to  me,  because  he  said  he  believed  I  should  try  to  get  away 
one  of  these  days.  Looks  interesting,  does  n't  it  ?  "  he  said 
drawing  his  glove  on  again. 

"  I  declare,  my  very  blood  runs  cold  when  I  think  of  it,  — 
your  condition  and  your  risks  !  "  said  Mr.  Wilson. 

"  Mine  has  run  cold  a  good  many  years,  Mr.  Wilson  ;  at  pres 
ent,  it  's  about  up  to  the  boiling  point,"  said  George. 

"  Well,  my  good  sir,"  continued  George,  after  a  few  mo 
ments'  silence,  "  I  saw  you  knew  me  ;  I  thought  I  'd  just  have 
this  talk  with  you,  lest  your  surprised  looks  should  bring  me 
out.  I  leave  early  to-morrow  morning,  before  daylight ;  by  to 
morrow  night  I  hope  to  sleep  safe  in  Ohio.  I  shall  travel  by 
daylight,  stop  at  the  best  hotels,  go  to  the  dinner-tables  with  the 
lords  of  the  land.  So,  good-by,  sir ;  if  you  hear  that  I  'm  taken, 
you  may  know  that  I  'm  dead  !  " 

George  stood  up  like  a  rock,  and  put  out  his  hand  with  the 
air  of  a  prince.  The  friendly  little  old  man  shook  it  heartily, 
and  after  a  little  shower  of  caution,  he  took  his  umbrella,  and 
fumbled  his  way  out  of  the  room. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  129 

George  stood  thoughtfully  looking  at  the  door,  as  the  old 
man  closed  it.  A  thought  seemed  to  flash  across  his  mind.  He 
hastily  stepped  to  it,  and,  opening  it,  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Wilson,  one  word  more." 

The  old  gentleman  entered  again,  and  George,  as  before, 
locked  the  door,  and  then  stood  for  a  few  moments  looking  on 
the  floor,  irresolutely.  At  last,  raising  his  head  with  a  sudden 
effort,  — 

u  Mr.  Wilson,  you  have  shown  yourself  a  Christian  in  your 
treatment  of  me,  —  I  want  to  ask  one  last  deed  of  Christian 
kindness  of  you." 

"  Well,  George." 

"  Well,  sir,  —  what  you  said  was  true.  I  am  running  a 
dreadful  risk.  There  is  n't,  on  earth,  a  living  soul  to  care  if  I 
die,"  he  added,  drawing  his  breath  hard,  and  speaking  with  a 
great  effort,  —  "I  shall  be  kicked  out  and  buried  like  a  dog, 
and  nobody  '11  think  of  it  a  day  after,  —  only  my  poor  wife  ! 
Poor  soul !  she  '11  mourn  and  grieve  ;  and  if  you  'd  only  con 
trive,  Mr.  Wilson,  to  send  this  little  pin  to  her.  She  gave  it 
to  me  for  a  Christmas  present,  poor  child  !  Give  it  to  her,  and 
tell  her  I  loved  her  to  the  last.  Will  you  ?  Will  you?  "  he 
added,  earnestly. 

"  Yes,  certainly,  —  poor  fellow !  "  said  the  old  gentleman, 
taking  the  pin,  with  watery  eyes,  and  a  melancholy  quiver  in 
his  voice. 

"  Tell  her  one  thing,"  said  George  ;  "  it  's  my  last  wish,  if 
she  can  get  to  Canada,  to  go  there.  No  matter  how  kind  her 
mistress  is,  —  no  matter  how  much  she  loves  her  home  ;  beg 
her  not  to  go  back,  —  for  slavery  always  ends  in  misery.  Tell 
her  to  bring  up  our  boy  a  free  man,  and  then  he  won't  suffer  as 
I  have.  Tell  her  this,  Mr.  Wilson,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  George,  I  '11  tell  her  ;  but  I  trust  you  won't  die  ;  take 
heart,  —  you  're  a  brave  fellow.  Trust  in  the  Lord,  George.  I 
wish  in  my  heart  you  were  safe  through,  though,  —  that 's 
what  I  do." 

"  Is  there  a  God  to  trust  in  ?  "  said  George,  in  such  a  tone 
of  bitter  despair  as  arrested  the  old  gentleman's  words.  "  Oh, 
I  've  seen  things  all  my  life  that  have  made  me  feel  that  there 


130  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

can't  be  a  God.  You  Christians  don't  know  how  these  things 
look  to  us.  There  's  a  God  for  you,  but  is  there  any  for  us  ?  " 

"  Oh,  now,  don't,  —  don't,  my  boy !  "  said  the  old  man,  almost 
sobbing  as  he  spoke  ;  "  don't  feel  so !  There  is,  —  there  is  ; 
clouds  and  darkness  are  around  about  him,  but  righteousness 
and  judgment  are  the  habitation  of  his  throne.  There  's  a  Gody 
George,  —  believe  it ;  trust  in  him,  and  I  'm  sure  he  '11  help 
you.  Everything  will  be  set  right,  —  if  not  in  this  life,  in  an- 
other." 

The  real  piety  and  benevolence  of  the  simple  old  man  in 
vested  him  with  a  temporary  dignity  and  authority  as  he  spoke. 
George  stopped  his  distracted  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  stood 
thoughtfully  a  moment,  and  then  said,  quietly,  — 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  that,  my  good  friend ;  I  '11  think  of 

that:' 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  181 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SELECT    INCIDENT    OF   LAWFUL    TRADE. 

"  In  Ramah  there  was  a  voice  heard,  —  weeping,  and  lamentation,  and  great  mourn 
ing  ;  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted." 

MB.  HALEY  and  Tom  jogged  onward  in  their  wagon,  each, 
for  a  time,  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections.  Now,  the  reflec 
tions  of  two  men  sitting  side  by  side  are  a  curious  thing,  — 
seated  on  the  same  seat,  having  the  same  eyes,  ears,  hands,  and 
organs  of  all  sorts,  and  having  pass  before  their  eyes  the  same 
objects,  —  it  is  wonderful  what  a  variety  we  shall  find  in  these 
same  reflections ! 

As,  for  example,  Mr.  Haley :  he  thought  first  of  Tom's  length, 
and  breadth,  and  height,  and  what  he  would  sell  for,  if  he  was 
kept  fat  and  in  good  case  till  he  got  him  into  market.  He 
thought  of  how  he  should  make  out  his  gang ;  he  thought  of 
the  respective  market  value  of  certain  supposititious  men  and 
women  and  children  who  were  to  compose  it,  and  other  kindred 
topics  of  the  business  ;  then  he  thought  of  himself,  and  how 
humane  he  was,  that  whereas  other  men  chained  their  "  niggers  " 
hand  and  foot  both,  he  only  put  fetters  on  the  feet,  and  left 
Tom  the  use  of  his  hands,  as  long  as  he  behaved  well ;  and  he 
sighed  to  think  how  ungrateful  human  nature  was,  so  that  there 
was  even  room  to  doubt  whether  Tom  appreciated  his  mercies. 
He  had  been  taken  in  so  by  "  niggers  "  whom  he  had  favored  ; 
but  still  he  was  astonished  to  consider  how  good-natured  he  yet 
remained  ! 

As  to  Tom,  he  was  thinking  over  some  words  of  an  unfash 
ionable  old  book,  which  kept  running  through  his  head  again 
and  again,  as  follows :  "  We  have  here  no  continuing  city,  but 
we  seek  one  to  come ;  wherefore  God  himself  is  not  ashamed 
to  be  called  our  God ;  for  he  hath  prepared  for  us  a  city." 
These  words  of  an  ancient  volume,  got  up  principally  by 


132  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

"  ignorant  and  unlearned  men,"  have,  through  all  time,  kept  up, 
somehow,  a  strange  sort  of  power  over  the  minds  of  poor, 
simple  fellows,  like  Tom.  They  stir  up  the  soul  from  its  depths, 
and  rouse,  as  with  trumpet  call,  courage,  energy,  and  enthu 
siasm,  where  before  was  only  the  blackness  of  despair. 

Mr.  Haley  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  sundry  newspapers,  and 
began  looking  over  their  advertisements,  with  absorbed  interest. 
He  was  not  a  remarkably  fluent  reader,  and  was  in  the  habit  of 
reading  in  a  sort  of  recitative  half-aloud,  by  way  of  calling  in 
his  ears  to  verify  the  deductions  of  his  eyes.  In  this  tone  he 
slowly  recited  the  following  paragraph :  — 

"  EXECUTOR'S  SALE  ,  —  NEGROES  !  —  Agreeably  to  order  of  court, 
will  be  sold,  on  Tuesday,  February  20,  before  the  Court-house  door, 
in  the  town  of  Washington,  Kentucky,  the  following  negroes  :  Hagar, 
aged  60  ;  John,  aged  30  ;  Ben,  aged  21  ;  Saul,  aged  25  ;  Albert, 
aged  14.  Sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  creditors  and  heirs  of  the 
estate  of  Jesse  Blutchford,  Esq. 

«  SAMUEL  MORRIS,  \  J7vfr.lfnr9  » 
"THOMAS  FLINT,    \Executors- 

"This  yer  I  must  look  at,"  said  he  to  Tom,  for  want  of 
somebody  else  to  talk  to.  "  Ye  see,  I'm  going  to  get  up  a  prime 
gang  to  take  down  with  ye,  Tom ;  it  '11  make  it  sociable  and 
pleasant  like,  —  good  company  will,  ye  know.  We  must  drive 
right  to  Washington  first  and  foremost,  and  then  I  '11  clap  you 
into  jail,  while  I  does  the  business." 

Tom  received  this  agreeable  intelligence  quite  meekly  ;  sim 
ply  wondering,  in  his  own  heart,  how  many  of  these  doomed 
men  had  wives  and  children,  and  whether  they  would  feel  as  he 
did  about  leaving  them.  It  is  to  be  confessed,  too,  that  the 
na'lve,  off-hand  information  that  he  was  to  be  thrown  into  jail 
by  no  means  produced  an  agreeable  impression  on  a  poor  fellow 
who  had  always  prided  himself  on  a  strictly  honest  and  upright 
course  of  life.  Yes,  Tom,  we  must  confess  it,  was  rather  proud 
of  his  honesty,  poor  fellow,  —  not  having  very  much  else  to  be 
proud  of ;  —  if  he  had  belonged  to  some  of  the  higher  walks  of 
society,  he,  perhaps,  would  never  have  been  reduced  to  such 
straits.  However,  the  day  wore  on,  and  the  evening  saw  Haley 
and  Tom  comfortably  accommodated  in  Washington,  —  the  one 
in  a  tavern,  and  the  other  in  a  jail. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  133 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  next  day,  a  mixed  throng  was  gath 
ered  around  the  court-house  steps,  —  smoking,  chewing,  spitting, 
swearing,  and  conversing,  according  to  their  respective  tastes 
and  turns,  —  waiting  for  the  auction  to  commence.  The  men 
and  women  to  be  sold  sat  in  a  group  apart,  talking  in  a  low  tone 
to  each  other.  The  woman  who  had  been  advertised  by  the 
name  of  Hagar  was  a  regular  African  in  feature  and  figure. 
She  might  have  been  sixty,  but  was  older  than  that  by  hard 
work  and  disease,  was  partially  blind,  and  somewhat  crippled 
with  rheumatism.  By  her  side  stood  her  only  remaining  son, 
Albert,  a  bright  -  looking  little  fellow  of  fourteen  years.  The 
boy  was  the  only  survivor  of  a  large  family,  who  had  been  suc 
cessively  sold  away  from  her  to  a  southern  market.  The  mother 
held  on  to  him  with  both  her  shaking  hands,  and  eyed  with 
intense  trepidation  every  one  who  walked  up  to  examine  him. 

"  Don't  be  'feard,  Aunt  Hagar,"  said  the  oldest  of  the  men. 
"  I  spoke  to  Mas'r  Thomas  'bout  it,  and  he  thought  he  might 
manage  to  sell  you  in  a  lot  both  together." 

"Dey  needn't  call  me  worn  out  yet,"  said  she,  lifting  her 
shaking  hands.  "  I  can  cook  yet,  and  scrub,  and  scour,  —  I  'm 
wuth  a  buying,  if  I  do  come  cheap ;  —  tell  'em  dat  ar,  —  you 
tell  'em,"  she  added,  earnestly. 

Haley  here  forced  his  way  into  the  group,  walked  up  to  the 
old  man,  pulled  his  mouth  open  and  looked  in,  felt  of  his  teeth, 
made  him  stand  and  straighten  himself,  bend  his  back,  and 
perform  various  evolutions  to  show  his  muscles;  and  then 
passed  on  to  the  next,  and  put  him  through  the  same  trial. 
Walking  up  last  to  the  boy,  he  felt  of  his  arms,  straightened 
his  hands,  and  looked  at  his  fingers,  and  made  him  jump,  to 
show  his  agility. 

"  He  an't  gwine  to  be  sold  widout  me !  "  said  the  old  woman, 
with  passionate  eagerness ;  "  he  and  I  goes  in  a  lot  together ; 
I  'a  rail  strong  yet,  Mas'r,  and  can  do  heaps  o'  work,  —  heaps 
on  it,  Mas'r." 

"  On  plantation  ?  "  said  Haley,  with  a  contemptuous  glance. 
"  Likely  story  !  "  and,  as  if  satisfied  with  his  examination,  he 
walked  out  and  looked,  and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hat  cocked  on  on©  side,  ready 
for  action. 


184  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  What  think  of  'em?  "  said  a  man  who  had  been  following 
Haley's  examination,  as  if  to  make  up  his  own  mind  from  it. 

"  Wai,"  said  Haley,  spitting,  "  I  shall  put  in,  I  think,  for  the 
youngerly  ones  and  the  boy." 

"  They  want  to  sell  the  boy  and  the  old  woman  together," 
said  the  man. 

"  Find  it  a  tight  pull ;  —  why,  she  's  an  old  rack  o'  bones  — 
not  worth  her  salt." 

"  You  would  n't,  then  ?  "  said  the  man. 

"  Anybody  'd  be  a  fool  't  would.  She  's  half  blind,  crooked 
with  rheumatis,  and  foolish  to  boot." 

"  Some  buys  up  these  yer  old  critturs,  and  ses  there  's  a 
sight  more  wear  in  'em  than  a  body  'd  think,"  said  the  man, 
reflectively. 

"No,  go,  't  all,"  said  Haley;  "would  n't  take  her  for  a 
present,  —  fact,  —  I  've  seen,  now." 

"  Wai,  't  is  kinder  pity,  now,  not  to  buy  her  with  her  son, 
—  her  heart  seems  so  sot  on  him,  —  s'pose  they  fling  her  in 
cheap." 

"  Them  that  's  got  money  to  spend  that  ar  way,  it  's  all  well 
enough.  I  shall  bid  off  on  that  ar  boy  for  a  plantation-hand  ;  — 
would  n't  be  bothered  with  her,  no  way,  —  not  if  they  'd  give 
her  to  me,"  said  Haley. 

"  She  '11  take  on  desp't,"  said  the  man. 

"  Nat'lly,  she  will,"  said  the  trader,  coolly. 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  a  busy  hum  in  the 
audience ;  and  the  auctioneer,  a  short,  bustling,  important  fel 
low,  elbowed  his  way  into  the  crowd.  The  old  woman  drew  in 
her  breath,  and  caught  instinctively  at  her  son. 

"  Keep  close  to  yer  mammy,  Albert,  —  close,  —  dey  '11  put 
us  up  togedder,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  mammy,  I  'm  'feared  they  won't,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Dey  must,  child ;  I  can't  live,  no  ways,  if  they  don't !  " 
said  the  old  creature,  vehemently. 

The  stentorian  tones  of  the  auctioneer,  calling  out  to  clear  the 
way,  now  announced  that  the  sale  was  about/  to  commence. 
A  place  was  cleared,  and  the  bidding  began.  The  different 
men  on  the  list  were  soon  knocked  off  at  prices  which  showed 
a  pretty  brisk  demand  in  the  market  ;  two  of  them  fell  to 
Haley. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  135 

"  Come  now,  young  un,"  said  the  auctioneer,  giving  the  boy 
a  touch  with  his  hammer,  "  be  up  and  show  your  springs,  now." 

"  Put  us  two  up  togedder,  togedder,  —  do  please,  Mas'r,"  said 
the  old  woman,  holding  fast  to  her  boy. 

u  Be  off,"  said  the  man,  gruffly,  pushing  her  hands  away ; 
"  you  come  last.  Now,  darkey,  spring";''  and,  with  the  word, 
he  pushed  the  boy  toward  the  block,  while  a  deep,  heavy  groan 
rose  behind  him.  The  boy  paused,  and  looked  back  ;  but  there 
was  no  time  to  stay,  and,  dashing  the  tears  from  his  large,  bright 
eyes,  he  was  up  in  a  moment. 

His  fine  figure,  alert  limbs,  and  bright  face  raised  an  instant 
competition,  and  half  a  dozen  bids  simultaneously  met  the  ear  of 
the  auctioneer.  Anxious,  half  frightened,  he  looked  from  side 
to  side,  as  he  heard  the  clatter  of  contending  bids,  —  now  here, 
now  there,  —  till  the  hammer  fell.  Haley  had  got  him.  He 
was  pushed  from  the  block  toward  his  new  master,  but  stopped 
one  moment,  and  looked  back,  when  his  poor  old  mother,  trem 
bling  in  every  limb,  held  out  her  shaking  hands  toward  him. 

"  Buy  me  too,  Mas'r,  for  de  dear  Lord's  sake  !  —  buy  me,  — 
I  shall  die  if  you  don't !  " 

"  You  '11  die  if  I  do,  that 's  the  kink  of  it,"  said  Haley,  — 
"  no  !  "  And  he  turned  on  his  heel. 

The  bidding  for  the  poor  old  creature  was  summary.  The 
man  who  had  addressed  Haley,  and  who  seemed  not  destitute  of 
compassion,  bought  her  for  a  trifle,  and  the  spectators  began  to 
disperse. 

The  poor  victims  of  the  sale,  who  had  been  brought  up  in 
one  place  together  for  years,  gathered  round  the  despairing  old 
mother,  whose  agony  was  pitiful  to  see. 

"  Could  n't  dey  leave  me  one  ?  Mas'r  allers  said  I  should 
have  one, — he  did,"  she  repeated  over  and  over,  in  heart 
broken  tones. 

"  Trust  in  the  Lord,  Aunt  Hagar,"  said  the  oldest  of  the  men, 
sorrowfully. 

"  What  good  will  it  do  ?  "  said  she,  sobbing  passionately. 

"  Mother,  mother,  —  don't !  don't !  "  said  the  boy.  "  They 
iay  you  's  got  a  good  master." 

"  I  don't  care,  —  I  don't  care.  Oh,  Albert !  Oh,  my  boy, 
you 's  my  last  baby.  Lord,  how  ken  I  ?  " 


136         UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Come,  take  her  off,  can't  some  of  ye  ?  "  said  Haley,  dryly ; 
"  don't  do  no  good  for  her  to  go  on  that  ar  way." 

The  old  men  of  the  company,  partly  by  persuasion  and  partly 
by  force,  loosed  the  poor  creature's  last  despairing  hold,  and, 
as  they  led  her  off  to  her  new  master's  wagon,  strove  to  com 
fort  her. 

"  Now !  "  said  Haley,  pushing  his  three  purchases  togethert 
and  producing  a  bundle  of  handcuffs,  which  he  proceeded  to  put 
on  their  wrists  ;  and  fastening  each  handcuff  to  a  long  chain,  he 
drove  them  before  him  to  the  jail. 

A  few  days  saw  Haley,  with  his  possessions,  safely  deposited  on 
one  of  the  Ohio  boats.  It  was  the  commencement  of  his  gang, 
to  be  augmented,  as  the  boat  moved  on,  by  various  other  mer- 
chandise  of  the  same  kind,  which  he,  or  his  agent,  had  stored  for 
him  in  various  points  along  shore. 

The  La  Belle  Riviere,  as  brave  and  beautiful  a  boat  as  ever 
walked  the  waters  of  her  namesake  river,  was  floating  gayly 
down  the  stream,  under  a  brilliant  sky,  the  Stripes  and  Stars  of 
free  America  waving  and  fluttering  overhead ;  the  guards  crowded 
with  well-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen  walking  and  enjoying 
the  delightful  day.  All  was  full  of  life,  buoyant  and  rejoicing  ; 
—  all  but  Haley's  gang,  who  were  stored,  with  other  freight, 
on  the  lower  deck,  and  who,  somehow,  did  not  seem  to  appre 
ciate  their  various  privileges,  as  they  sat  in  a  knot,  talking  to 
each  other  in  low  tones. 

"  Boys,"  said  Haley,  coming  up,  briskly,  "  I  hope  you  keep 
up  good  heart,  and  are  cheerful.  Now,  no  sulks,  ye  see  ;  keep 
stiff  upper  lip,  boys ;  do  well  by  me,  and  1 11  do  well  by  you." 

The  boys  addressed  responded  the  invariable  "  Yes,  Mas'r," 
for  ages  the  watchword  of  poor  Africa ;  but  it 's  to  be  owned 
they  did  not  look  particularly  cheerful ;  they  had  their  various 
little  prejudices  in  favor  of  wives,  mothers,  sisters,  and  children, 
seen  for  the  last  time,  —  and  though  "  they  that  wasted  them 
required  of  them  mirth,"  it  was  not  instantly  forthcoming. 

"  I  've  got  a  wife,"  spoke  out  the  article  enumerated  as  "  John, 
aged  thirty,"  and  he  laid  his  chained  hand  on  Tomys  knee,  — 
"  and  she  don't  know  a  word  about  this,  poor  girl !  " 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?"  said  Tom. 

"  In  a  tavern  a  piece  down  here,"  said  John  ;  "  I  wish,  now, 
I  antid  see  her  once  more  in  this  world,"  he  added. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  137 

Poor  John  !  It  was  rather  natural ;  and  the  tears  that  fell, 
as  he  spoke,  came  as  naturally  as  if  he  had  been  a  white  man. 
Tom  drew  a  long  breath  from  a  sore  heart,  and  tried,  in  his  poor 
way,  to  comfort  him. 

And  overhead,  in  the  cabin,  sat  fathers  and  mothers,  husbands 
and  wives  ;  and  merry,  dancing  children  moved  round  among 
them,  like  so  many  little  butterflies,  and  everything  was  going  on 
quite  easy  and  comfortable. 

"  Oh,  mamma,"  said  a  boy,  who  had  just  come  up  from  below, 
"  there  's  a  negro-trader  on  board,  and  he  's  brought  four  or  five 
slaves  down  there." 

"  Poor  creatures !  "  said  the  mother,  in  a  tone  between  grief 
and  indignation. 

"  What 's  that?  "  said  another  lady. 

*'  Some  poor  slaves  below,"  said  the  mother. 

"  And  they  've  got  chains  on,"  said  the  boy. 

"What  a  shame  to  our  country  that  such  sights  are  to  be 
seen  !  "  said  another  lady. 

"  Oh,  there  's  a  great  deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  the  sub 
ject,"  said  a  genteel  woman,  who  sat  at  her  state-room  door 
sewing,  while  her  little  boy  and  girl  were  playing  round  her. 
"  I  Ve  been  south,  and  I  must  say  I  think  the  negroes  are  better 
off  than  they  would  be  to  be  free." 

"  In  some  respects,  some  of  them  are  well  off,  I  grant,"  said 
the  lady  to  whose  remark  she  had  answered.  "  The  most  dread 
ful  part  of  slavery,  to  my  mind,  is  its  outrages  on  the  feelings 
and  affections,  —  the  separating  of  families,  for  example." 

"  That  is  a  bad  thing,  certainly,"  said  the  other  lady,  hold 
ing  up  a  baby's  dress  she  had  just  completed,  and  looking 
intently  on  its  trimmings  ;  "  but  then,  I  fancy,  it  don't  occur 
often." 

"  Oh,  it  does,"  said  the  first  lady,  eagerly  ;  "  I  've  lived  many 
years  in  Kentucky  and  Virginia  both,  and  I  've  seen  enough  to 
make  any  one's  heart  sick.  Suppose,  ma'am,  your  two  children, 
there,  should  be  taken  from  you,  and  sold  ?  " 

"  We  can't  reason  from  our  Heelings  to  those  of  this  class  of 
persons,"  said  the  other  lady,  sorting  out  some  worsteds  on  her 
lap. 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  you  can  know  nothing  of  them,  if  you  say 


188  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OB, 

so,"  answered  the  first  lady,  warmly.  "  I  was  born  and  brought 
up  among  them.  I  know  they  do  feel,  just  as  keenly  —  even 
more  so,  perhaps  —  as  we  do." 

The  lady  said  "  Indeed  !  "  yawned,  and  looked  out  the  cabin 
window,  and  finally  repeated,  for  a  finale,  the  remark  with  which 
she  had  begun,  —  "  After  all,  I  think  they  are  better  off  than 
they  would  be  to  be  free." 

"  It 's  undoubtedly  the  intention  of  Providence  that  the  Afri 
can  race  should  be  servants,  —  kept  in  a  low  condition,"  said  a 
grave-looking  gentleman  in  black,  a  clergyman,  seated  by  the 
cabin  door.  "  '  Cursed  be  Canaan  ;  a  servant  of  servants  shall 
he  be,'  the  Scripture  says." 

"  I  say,  stranger,  is  that  ar  what  that  text  means  ?  "  said  a  tall 
man,  standing  by. 

"  Undoubtedly.  It  pleased  Providence,  for  some  inscrutable 
reason,  to  doom  the  race  to  bondage,  ages  ago  ;  and  we  must  not 
set  up  our  opinion  against  that." 

"  Well,  then,  we  '11  all  go  ahead  and  buy  up  niggers,"  said  the 
man,  "  if  that 's  the  way  of  Providence,  —  won't  we,  Squire  ?  " 
said  he,  turning  to  Haley,  who  had  been  standing,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  by  the  stove,  and  intently  listening  to  the 
conversation. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  tall  man,  "we  must  all  be  resigned  to 
the  decrees  of  Providence.  Niggers  must  be  sold,  and  trucked 
round,  and  kept  under ;  it 's  what  they 's  inade  for.  'Pears 
like  this  yer  view 's  quite  refreshing,  an't  it,  strange*  ?  "  said  he 
to  Haley. 

"  I  never  thought  on 't,"  said  Haley.  "  I  could  n't  have  said 
as  much,  myself ;  I  han't  no  larning.  I  took  up  the  trade  just 
to  make  a  living  ;  if  't  an't  right,  I  calculated  to  'pent  on  't  in 
time,  ye  know." 

"  And  now  you  '11  save  yourself  the  trouble,  won't  ye  ?  "  said 
the  tall  man.  "  See  what 't  is,  now,  to  know  Scripture  If  ye  'd 
only  studied  yer  Bible,  like  this  yer  good  man,  ye  might  have 
know'd  it  before,  and  saved  ye  a  heap  o'  trouble.  Ye  could  jist 
have  said,  *  Cussed  be  '  —  what 's  his  name  ?  —  and  't  would  all 
have  come  right."  And  the  stranger,  who  was  no  other  than  the 
honest  drover  whom  we  introduced  to  our  readers  in  the  Ken 
tucky  tavern,  sat  down,  and  began  smoking,  with  a  curious  smile 
on  his  long,  dry  face. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  189 

A  tall,  slender  young  man,  with  a  face  expressive  of  great 
feeling  and  intelligence,  here  broke  in,  and  repeated  the  words, 
"  '  All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto  you, 
do  ye  even  so  unto  them.'  I  suppose,"  he  added,  "  that  is 
Scripture,  as  much  as  '  Cursed  be  Canaan.'  " 

"  Wai,  it  seems  quite  as  plain  a  text,  stranger,"  said  John  the 
drover,  "  to  poor  fellows  like  us,  now ; "  and  John  smoked  on 
like  a  volcano. 

The  young  man  paused,  looked  as  if  he  was  going  to  say  more, 
when  suddenly  the  boat  stopped,  and  the  company  made  the 
usual  steamboat  rush,  to  see  where  they  were  landing. 

"  Both  them  ar  chaps  parsons  ?  "  said  John  to  one  of  the  men, 
as  they  were  going  out. 

The  man  nodded. 

As  the  boat  stopped,  a  black  woman  came  running  wildly  up 
the  plank,  darted  into  the  crowd,  flew  up  to  where  the  slave  gang 
sat,  and  threw  her  arms  round  that  unfortunate  piece  of  mer 
chandise  before  enumerated,  —  "John,  aged  thirty,"  and  with 
sobs  and  tears  bemoaned  him  as  her  husband. 

But  what  needs  tell  the  story,  told  too  oft,  —  every  day  told, 
—  of  heart-strings  rent  and  broken,  —  the  weak  broken  and 
torn  for  the  profit  and  convenience  of  the  strong  !  It  needs  not 
to  be  told  ;  —  every  day  is  telling  it,  —  telling  it,  too,  in  the  ear 
of  One  who  is  not  deaf,  though  he  be  long  silent. 

The  young  man  who  had  spoken  for  the  cause  of  humanity 
and  God  before  stood  with  folded  arms,  looking  on  this  scene. 
He  turned,  and  Haley  was  standing  at  his  side. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  speaking  with  thick  utterance,  "  how 
can  you,  how  dare  you,  carry  on  a  trade  like  this  ?  Look  at 
those  poor  creatures !  Here  I  am,  rejoicing  in  my  heart  that  I 
am  going  home  to  my  wife  and  child  ;  and  the  same  bell  which 
is  a  signal  to  carry  me  onward  towards  them  will  part  this  poor 
man  and  his  wife  forever.  Depend  upon  it,  God  will  bring  you 
into  judgment  for  this." 

The  trader  turned  away  in  silence. 

"  I  say,  now,"  said  the  drover,  touching  his  elbow,  "  there  's 
differences  in  parsons,  an't  there  ?  '  Cussed  be  Canaan  '  don't 
seem  to  go  down  with  this  'un,  does  it  ?  " 

Haley  gave  an  uneasy  growl. 


140  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  And  that  ar  an't  the  worst  on  't,"  said  John ;  "  mabbc  it 
won't  go  down  with  the  Lord,  neither,  when  ye  come  to  settle 
with  him,  one  o'  these  days,  as  all  on  us  must,  I  reckon." 

Haley  walked  reflectively  to  the  other  end  of  the  boat. 

"  If  I  make  pretty  handsomely  on  one  or  two  next  gangs," 
he  thought,  "  I  reckon  I  '11  stop  off  this  yer ;  it 's  really  get 
ting  dangerous."  And  he  took  out  his  pocket-book,  and  began 
adding  over  his  accounts,  —  a  process  which  many  gentlemen 
besides  Mr.  Haley  have  found  a  specific  for  an  uneasy  con 
science. 

The  boat  swept  proudly  away  from  the  shore,  and  all  went 
on  merrily,  as  before.  Men  talked,  and  loafed,  and  read,  and 
smoked.  Women  sewed,  and  children  played,  and  the  boat 
passed  on  her  way. 

One  day,  when  she  lay  to  for  a  while  at  a  small  town  in 
Kentucky,  Haley  went  up  into  the  place  on  a  little  matter  of 
business. 

Tom,  whose  fetters  did  not  prevent  his  taking  a  moderate 
circuit,  had  drawn  near  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  stood  listlessly 
gazing  over  the  railings.  After  a  time,  he  saw  the  trader  re 
turning,  with  an  alert  step,  in  company  with^a  colored  woman, 
bearing  in  her  arms  a  young  child.  She  was  dressed  quite  re 
spectably,  and  a  colored  man  followed  her  bringing  along  a  small 
trunk.  The  woman  came  cheerfully  onward,  talking,  as  she 
came,  with  the  man  who  bore  her  trunk,  and  so  passed  up  the 
plank  into  the  boat.  The  bell  rung,  the  steamer  whizzed,  the 
engine  groaned  and  coughed,  and  away  swept  the  boat  down  the 
river. 

The  woman  walked  forward  among  the  boxes  and  bales  of  the 
lower  deck,  and,  sitting  down,  busied  herself  with  chirruping  to 
her  baby. 

Haley  made  a  turn  or  two  about  the  boat,  and  then,  coming 
up,  seated  himself  near  her,  and  began  saying  something  to  her 
in  an  indifferent  undertone. 

Tom  soon  noticed  a  heavy  cloud  passing  over  the  woman's 
brow;  and  that  she  answered  rapidly,  and  with  great  -vehe 
mence. 

"  I  don't  believe  it, —  I  won't  believe  it !  "  he  heard  her  say 
"  You  're  jist  a  foolin'  with  me." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  141 

"  If  you  won't  believe  it,  look  here  !  "  said  the  man,  drawing 
out  a  paper  ;  "  this  yer  's  the  bill  of  sale,  and  there  's  your  mas 
ter's  name  to  it ;  and  I  paid  down  good  solid  cash  for  it,  too,  I 
can  tell  you,  —  so,  now  !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  Mas'r  would  cheat  me  so  ;  it  can't  be  true !  " 
said  the  woman,  with  increasing  agitation. 

"  You  can  ask  any  of  these  men  here,  that  can  read  writing. 
Here !  "  he  said,  to  a  man  that  was  passing  by,  "  jist  read  this 
yer  won't  you!  This  ybf  gal  won't  believe  me,  when  I  tell 
her  what 't  is." 

"  Why,  it 's  a  bill  of  sale,  signed  by  John  Fosdick,"  said  the 
man,  "  making  over  to  you  the  girl  Lucy  and  her  child.  It 's 
all  straight  enough,  for  aught  I  see." 

The  woman's  passionate  exclamations  collected  a  crowd  around 
her,  and  the  trader  briefly  explained  to  them  the  cause  of  the 
agitation. 

"  He  told  me  that  I  was  going  down  to  Louisville,  to  hire  out 
as  cook  to  the  same  tavern  where  my  husband  works,  —  that 's 
what  Mas'r  told  me,  his  own  self ;  and  I  can't  believe  he  'd  lie 
to  me,"  said  the  woman. 

"But  he  has  sold  you,  my  poor  woman,  there's  no  doubt 
about  it,"  said  a  good-natured  looking  man,  who  had  been  ex 
amining  the  papers  ;  "  he  has  done  it,  and  no  mistake." 

"  Then  it 's  no  account  talking,"  said  the  woman,  suddenly 
growing  quite  calm ;  and,  clasping  her  child  tighter  in  her  arms, 
she  sat  down  on  her  box,  turned  her  back  round,  and  gazed 
listlessly  into  the  river. 

"  Going  to  take  it  easy,  after  all !  "  said  the  trader.  "  Gal 's 
got  grit.  I  see." 

The'  woman  looked  calm,  as  the  boat  went  on ;  and  a  beauti 
ful  soft  summer  breeze  passed  like  a  compassionate  spirit  over 
her  head,  —  the  gentle  breeze,  that  never  inquires  whether  the 
brow  is  dusky  or  fair  that  it  fans.  And  she  saw  sunshine 
sparkling  on  the  water,  in  golden  ripples,  and  heard  gay  voices, 
full  of  ease  and  pleasure,  talking  around  her  everywhere ;  but 
her  heart  lay  as  if  a  great  stone  had  fallen  on  it.  Her  baby 
raised  himself  up  against  her,  and  stroked  her  cheeks  with  his 
little  hands  ;  and,  springing  up  and  down,  crowing  and  chatting, 
seemed  determined  to  arouse  her.  She  strained  him  suddenly 


142  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

and  tightly  in  her  arms,  and  slowly  one  tear  after  another  fell 
on  his  wondering,  unconscious  face ;  and  gradually  she  seemed, 
and  little  by  little,  to  grow  calmer,  and  busied  herself  with  tend 
ing  and  nursing  him. 

The  child,  a  boy  of  ten  months,  was  uncommonly  large  and 
strong  of  his  age,  and  very  vigorous  in  his  limbs.  Never,  for  a 
moment,  still,  he  kept  his  mother  constantly  busy  in  holding 
him,  and  guarding  his  springing  activity. 

"That 's  a  fine  chap  !  "  said  a  man,  suddenly  stopping  oppo 
site  to  him,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  How  old  is  he  ?  " 

"  Ten  months  and  a  half,"  said  the  mother. 

The  man  whistled  to  the  boy,  and  offered  him  part  of  a  stick 
of  candy,  which  he  eagerly  grabbed  at,  and  very  soon  had  it  in 
a  baby's  general  depository,  to  wit,  his  mouth. 

"  Rum  fellow !  "  said  the  man.  "  Knows  what 's  what !  "  and 
he  whistled,  and  walked  on.  When  he  had  got  to  the  other 
side  of  the  boat,  he  came  across  Haley,  who  was  smoking  on 
top  of  a  pile  of  boxes. 

The  stranger  produced  a  match,  and  lighted  a  cigar,  saying, 
as  he  did  so,  — 

"  Decentish  kind  o'  wench  you  Ve  got  round  there,  stranger." 

"  Why,  I  reckon  she  is  tol'able  fair,"  said  Haley,  blowing  the 
smoke  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  Taking  her  down  south  ?  "  said  the  man. 

Haley  nodded,  and  smoked  on. 

"  Plantation  hand  ?  "  said  the  man. 

"  Wai,"  said  Haley,  "  I  'm  fillin'  out  an  order  for  a  planta 
tion,  and  I  think  I  shall  put  her  in.  They  telled  me  she  was 
a  good  cook ;  and  they  can  use  her  for  that,  or  set  her  at  the 
cotton-picking.  She  's  got  the  right  fingers  for  that ;  I  looked 
at  'em.  Sell  well,  either  way ;  "  and  Haley  resumed  his  cigar. 

"  They  won't  want  the  young  un  on  a  plantation,"  said  th« 
man. 

"  I  shall  sell  him,  first  chance  I  find,"  said  Haley,  lighting 
another  cigar. 

"S'pose  you  'd  be  selling  him  tol'able  cheap,"  said  the  stranger, 
mounting  the  pile  of  boxes,  and  sitting  down  comfortably. 

"  Don't  know  'bout  that,"  said  Haley  ;  "  he  's  a  pretty  smart 
young  un,  —  straight,  fat,  strong ;  flesh  as  hard  as  a  brick !  " 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  14& 

"  Very  true,  but  then  there  's  all  the  bother  and  expense  oi 
raisin'." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Haley ;  "  they  is  raised  as  easy  as  any 
kind  of  crittur  there  is  going ;  they  an't  a  bit  more  trouble  than 
pups.  This  yer  chap  will  be  running  all  round,  in  a  month." 

"  I  Ve  got  a  good  place  for  raisin',  and  I  thought  of  takin'  in 
a  little  more  stock,"  said  the  man.  "Our  cook  lost  a  young 
un  last  week,  —  got  drownded  in  a  washtub,  while  she  was  a 
hangin'  out  clothes,  —  and  I  reckon  it  would  be  well  enough  to 
set  her  to  raisin'  this  yer." 

Haley  and  the  stranger  smoked  awhile  in  silence,  neither 
seeming  willing  to  broach  the  test  question  of  the  interview. 
At  last  the  man  resumed :  — 

"  You  would  n't  think  of  wantin'  more  than  ten  dollars  for 
that  ar  chap,  seeing  you  must  get  him  off  yer  hand,  any  how  ?  " 

Haley  shook  his  head,  and  spit  impressively. 

"  That  won't  do,  no  ways,"  he  said,  and  began  his  smoking 
again. 

"  Well,  stranger,  what  will  you  take  ?  " 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Haley,  "  I  could  raise  that  ar  chap  myself, 
or  get  him  raised  ;  he  's  oncommon  likely  and  healthy,  and  he  'd 
fetch  a  hundred  dollars,  six  months  hence  ;  and,  in  a  year  or 
two,  he  'd  bring  two  hundred,  if  I  had  him  in  the  right  spot ;  — 
so  I  shan't  take  a  cent  less  nor  fifty  for  him  now." 

"  Oh,  stranger !  that 's  rediculous,  altogether,"  said  the  man. 

"  Fact !  "  said  Haley,  with  a  decisive  nod  of  his  head. 

"  I  '11  give  thirty  for  him,"  said  the  stranger,  "  but  not  a  cent 
more." 

"  Now,  I  '11  tell  ye  what  I  will  do,"  said  Haley,  spitting  again, 
with  renewed  decisidn.  "  I'll  split  the  difference,  and  say  forty- 
five  ;  and  that 's  the  most  I  will  do." 

"  Well,  agreed  ! "  said  the  man,  after  an  interval. 

"  Done !  "  said  Haley.     "  Where  do  you  land  ?  " 

"  At  Louisville,"  said  the  man. 

"  Louisville,"  said  Haley.  "  Very  fair,  we  get  there  about 
dusk.  Chap  will  be  asleep,  —  all  fair,  —  get  him  off  quietly, 
and  no  screaming,  —  happens  beautiful,  —  I  like  to  do  every 
thing  quietly,  —  I  hates  all  kind  of  agitation  and  fluster."  And 
so,  after  a  transfer  of  certain  bills  had  passed  from  the  man's 
pocket-book  to  the  trade**'  he  resumed  his  cigar. 


144  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

It  was  a  bright,  tranquil  evening  when  the  boat  stopped  at 
the  wharf  at  Louisville.  The  woman  had  been  sitting  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms,  now  wrapped  in  a  heavy  sleep.  When  she 
heard  the  name  of  the  place  called  out,  she  hastily  laid  the  child 
down  in  a  little  cradle  formed  by  the  hollow  among  the  boxes, 
first  carefully  spreading  under  it  her  cloak  ;  and  then  she  sprung 
to  the  side  of  the  boat,  in  hopes  that,  among  the  various  hotel- 
waiters  who  thronged  the  wharf,  she  might  see  her  husband. 
In  this  hope,  she  pressed  forward  to  the  front  rails,  and,  stretch 
ing  far  over  them,  strained  her  eyes  intently  on  the  moving 
heads  on  the  shore,  and  the  crowd  pressed  in  between  her  and 
the  child. 

"  Now  's  your  time,"  said  Haley,  taking  the  sleeping  child 
up,  and  handing  him  to  the  stranger.  "  Don't  wake  him  up, 
and  set  him  to  crying,  now ;  it  would  make  a  devil  of  a  fuss 
with  the  gal."  The  man  took  the  bundle  carefully,  and  was 
soon  lost  in  the  crowd  that  went  up  the  wharf. 

When  the  boat,  creaking,  and  groaning,  and  puffing,  had 
loosed  from  the  wharf,  and  was  beginning  slowly  to  strain  her 
self  along,  the  woman  returned  to  her  old  seat.  The  trader 
was  sitting  there,  —  the  child  was  gone  ! 

"  Why,  why,  —  where  ?  "  she  began,  in  bewildered  surprise. 

"  Lucy,''  said  the  trader,  "  your  child  's  gone  ;  you  may  as 
well  know  it  first  as  last.  You  see,  I  know'd  you  could  n't  take 
him  down  south ;  and  I  got  a  chance  to  sell  him  to  a  first-rate 
family,  that  11  raise  him  better  than  you  can." 

The  trader  had  arrived  at  that  stage  of  Christian  and  polit 
ical  perfection  which  has  been  recommended  by  some  preachers 
and  politicians  of  the  north,  lately,  in  which  he  had  completely 
overcome  every  humane  weakness  and  prejudice.  His  heart 
was  exactly  where  yours,  sir,  and  mine  could  be  brought,  with 
proper  effort  and  cultivation.  The  wild  look  of  anguish  and 
utter  despair  that  the  woman  cast  on  him  might  have  disturbed 
one  less  practised ;  but  he  was  used  to  it.  He  had  seen  that 
same  look  hundreds  of  times.  You  can  get  used  to  such  things, 
too,  my  friend ;  and  it  is  the  great  object  of  recent  efforts  to 
make  our  whole  northern  community  used  to  them,  for  the 
glory  of  the  Union.  So  the  trader  only  regarded  the  mortal 
anguish  which  he  saw  working  in  those  dark  features,  those 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  145 

clenched  hands,  and  suffocating  breathings,  as  necessary  inci 
dents  of  the  trade,  and  merely  calculated  whether  she  was  going 
to  scream,  and  get  up  a  commotion  on  the  boat ;  for,  like  other 
supporters  of  our  peculiar  institution,  he  decidedly  disliked  agi 
tation. 

But  the  woman  did  not  scream.  The  shot  had  passed  too 
straight  and  direct  through  the  heart,  for  cry  or  tear. 

Dizzily  she  sat  down.  Her  slack  hands  fell  lifeless  by  her 
side.  Her  eyes  looked  straight  forward,  but  she  saw  nothing. 
All  the  noise  and  hum  of  the  boat,  the  groaning  of  the  machin 
ery,  mingled  dreamily  to  her  bewildered  ear  ;  and  the  poor, 
dumb-stricken  heart  had  neither  cry  nor  tear  to  show  for  its 
utter  misery.  She  was  quite  calm. 

The  trader,  who,  considering  his  advantages,  was  almost  as 
humane  as  some  of  our  politicians,  seemed  to  feel  called  on  to 
administer  such  consolation  as  the  case  admitted  of. 

"  I  know  this  yer  comes  kinder  hard,  at  first,  Lucy,"  said  he ; 
"  but  such  a  smart,  sensible  gal  as  you  are  won't  give  way  to  it. 
You  see  it 's  necessary,  and  can't  be  helped !  " 

"  Oh,  don't,  Mas'r,  don't !  "  said  the  woman,  with  a  voice  like 
one  that  is  smothering. 

"  You  're  a  smart  wench,  Lucy,"  he  persisted ;  "  I  mean  to 
do  well  by  ye,  and  get  ye  a  nice  place  down  river ;  and  you  '11 
soon  get  another  husband,  —  such  a  likely  gal  as  you  "  — 

"  Oh,  Mas'r,  if  you  only  won't  talk  to  me  now,"  said  the 
woman,  in  a  voice  of  such  quick  and  living  anguish  that  the 
trader  felt  that  there  was  something  at  present  in  the  case  be 
yond  his  style  of  operation.  He  got  up,  and  the  woman  turned 
away,  and  buried  her  head  in  her  cloak. 

The  trader  walked  up  and  down  for  a  time,  and  occasionally 
stopped  and  looked  at  her. 

"Takes  it  hard,  rather,"  he  soliloquized,  "but  quiet,  tho'  — • 
let  her  sweat  awhile ;  she  '11  come  right,  by  and  by !  " 

Tom  had  watched  the  whole  transaction  from  first  to  last,  and 
had  a  perfect  understanding  of  its  results.  To  him,  it  looked 
like  something  unutterably  horrible  and  cruel,  because,  poor, 
ignorant  black  soul !  he  had  not  learned  to  generalize,  and  to 
take  enlarged  views.  If  he  had  only  been  instructed  by  certain 
ministers  of  Christianity,  he  might  have  thought  better  of  it, 
10 


146  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

and  seen  in  it  an  every-day  incident  of  a  lawful  trade ;  a  trade 
which  is  the  vital  support  of  an  institution  which  some  Ameri 
can  divines  tell  us  has  no  evils  but  such  as  are  inseparable  from 
any  other  relations  in  social  and  domestic  life.  But  Tom,  as 
we  see,  being  a  poor,  ignorant  fellow,  whose  reading  had  been 
confined  entirely  to  the  New  Testament,  could  not  comfort  and 
solace  himself  with  views  like  these.  His  very  soul  bled  within 
him  for  what  seemed  to  him  the  wrongs  of  the  poor  suffering 
thing  that  lay  like  a  crushed  reed  on  the  boxes;  the  feeling, 
living,  bleeding,  yet  immortal  thing,  which  American  state  law 
coolly  classes  with  the  bundles,  and  bales,  and  boxes,  among 
which  she  is  lying. 

Tom  drew  near,  and  tried  to  say  something;  but  she  only 
groaned.  Honestly,  and  with  tears  running  down  his  own 
cheeks,  he  spoke  of  a  heart  of  love  in  the  skies,  of  a  pitying 
Jesus,  and  an  eternal  home  ;  but  the  ear  was  deaf  with  anguish, 
and  the  palsied  heart  could  not  feel. 

Night  came  on,  —  night  calm,  unmoved,  and  glorious,  shin 
ing  down  with  her  innumerable  and  solemn  angel  eyes,  twink 
ling,  beautiful,  but  silent.  There  was  no  speech  nor  language, 
no  pitying  voice  nor  helping  hand,  from  that  distant  sky.  One 
after  another,  the  voices  of  business  or  pleasure  died  away ;  all 
on  the  boat  were  sleeping,  and  the  ripples  at  the  prow  were 
plainly  heard.  Tom  stretched  himself  out  on  a  box,  and  there, 
as  he  lay,  he  heard,  ever  and  anon,  a  smothered  sob  or  cry  from 
the  prostrate  creature,  —  "  Oh !  what  shall  I  do  ?  O  Lord  ! 
O  good  Lord,  do  help  me !  "  and  so,  ever  and  anon,  until  the 
murmur  died  away  in  silence. 

At  midnight,  Tom  waked,  with  a  sudden  start.  Something 
black  passed  quickly  by  him  to  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  he 
heard  a  splash  in  the  water.  No  one  else  saw  or  heard  any 
thing.  He  raised  his  head,  —  the  woman's  place  was  vacant ! 
He  got  up,  and  sought  about  him  in  vain.  The  poor  bleeding 
heart  was  still,  at  last,  and  the  river  rippled  and  dimpled  just  as 
brightly  as  if  it  had  not  closed  above  it. 

Patience !  patience !  ye  whose  hearts  swell  indignant  at 
wrongs  like  these.  Not  one  throb  of  anguish,  not  one  tear  of 
the  oppressed,  is  forgotten  by  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  the  Lord  of 
Glory.  In  his  patient,  generous  bosom  he  bears  the  anguish 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  147 

of  a  world.  Bear  thou,  like  him,  in  patience,  and  labor  in 
love ;  for  sure  as  he  is  God,  "  the  year  of  his  redeemed  thaU 
come." 

The  trader  waked  up  bright  and  early,  and  came  out  to  see 
to  his  live-stock.  It  was  now  his  turn  to  look  about  in  per 
plexity. 

"  Where  alive  is  that  gal  ?  "  he  said  to  Tom. 

Tom,  who  had  learned  the  wisdom  of  keeping  counsel,  did 
not  feel  called  on  to  state  his  observations  and  suspicions,  but 
said  he  did  not  know. 

"  She  surely  could  n't  have  got  off  in  the  night  at  any  of  the 
landings,  for  I  was  awake,  and  on  the  lookout,  whenever  the 
boat  stopped.  I  never  trust  these  yer  things  to  other  folks." 

This  speech  was  addressed  to  Tom  quite  confidentially,  as  if 
it  was  something  that  would  be  specially  interesting  to  him. 
Torn  made  no  answer. 

The  trader  searched  the  boat  from  stem  to  stern,  among 
boxes,  bales,  and  barrels,  around  the  machinery,  by  the  chim 
neys,  in  vain. 

"  Now,  I  say,  Tom,  be  fair  about  this  yer,"  he  said,  when, 
after  a  fruitless  search,  he  came  where  Tom  was  standing. 
"You  know  something  about  it,  now.  Don't  tell  me,  —  I 
know  you  do.  I  saw  the  gal  stretched  out  here  about  ten 
o'clock,  and  ag'in  at  twelve,  and  ag'in  between  one  and  two ; 
and  then  at  four  she  was  gone,  and  you  was  a  sleeping  right 
there  all  the  time.  Now,  you  know  something,  —  you  can't 
help  it." 

"Well,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  "towards  morning  something 
brushed  by  me,  and  I  kinder  half  woke ;  and  then  I  hearn  a 
great  splash,  and  then  I  clare  woke  up,  and  the  gal  was  gone. 
That 's  all  I  know  on  V 

The  trader  was  not  shocked  nor  amazed ;  because,  as  we 
said  before,  he  was  used  to  a  great  many  things  that  you  are 
not  used  to.  Even  the  awful  presence  of  Death  struck  no 
solemn  chill  upon  him.  He  had  seen  Death  many  times,  — 
met  him  in  the  way  of  trade,  and  got  acquainted  with  him,  — 
and  he  only  thought  of  him  as  a  hard  customer,  that  embar 
rassed  his  property  operations  very  unfairly ;  and  so  he  only 
swore  that  the  gal  was  a  baggage,  and  that  he  was  devilish 


148  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OB, 

unlucky,  and  that,  if  things  went  on  in  this  way,  he  should  not 
make  a  cent  on  the  trip.  In  short,  he  seemed  to  consider  him 
self  an  ill-used  man,  decidedly  ;  but  there  was  no  help  for  it, 
as  the  woman  had  escaped  into  a  s^te  which  never  will  give  up 
a  fugitive,  —  not  even  at  the  demand  of  the  whole  glorious 
Union.  The  trader,  therefore,  sat  discontentedly  down,  with 
his  little  account-book,  and  put  down  the  missing  body  and  soul 
under  the  head  of  losses  ! 

"He's  a  shocking  creature,  isn't  he, — this  trader?  so  un 
feeling  !  It 's  dreadful,  really  !  " 

"  Oh,  but  nobody  thinks  anything  of  these  traders  !  They 
are  universally  despised,  —  never  received  into  any  decent 
society." 

But  who,  sir,  makes  the  trader?  Who  is  most  to  blame? 
The  enlightened,  cultivated,  intelligent  man,  who  supports  the 
system  of  which  the  trader  is  the  inevitable  result,  or  the  poor 
trader  himself  ?  You  make  the  public  sentiment  that  calls  for 
his  trade,  that  debauches  and  depraves  him,  till  he  feels  no 
shame  in  it ;  and  in  what  are  you  better  than  he  ? 

Are  you  educated  and  he  ignorant,  you  high  and  he  low,  you 
refined  and  he  coarse,  you  talented  and  he  simple  ? 

In  the  day  of  a  future  Judgment,  these  very  considerations 
may  make  it  more  tolerable  for  him  than  for  you. 

In  concluding  these  little  incidents  of  lawful  trade,  we  must 
beg  the  world  not  to  think  that  American  legislators  are  entirely 
destitute  of  humanity,  as  might,  perhaps,  be  unfairly  inferred 
from  the  great  efforts  made  in  our  national  body  to  protect  and 
perpetuate  this  species  of  traffic. 

Who  does  not  know  how  our  great  men  are  outdoing  them 
selves,  in  declaiming  against  the  foreign  slave-trade  ?  There 
are  a  perfect  host  of  Clarksons  and  Wilberforces  risen  up  among 
us  on  that  subject,  most  edifying  to  hear  and  behold.  Trading 
negroes  from  Africa,  dear  reader,  is  so  horrid.  It  is  not  to  be 
thought  of  !  But  trading  them  from  Kentucky,  —  that 's  quite 
another  thing ! 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY,  149 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    QUAKER   SETTLEMENT. 

A  QUIET  scene  now  rises  before  us.  A  large,  roomy,  neatly 
painted  kitchen,  its  yellow  floor  glossy  and  smooth,  and  without 
a  particle  of  dust ;  a  neat,  well-blacked  cooking-stove  ;  rows  of 
shining  tin,  suggestive  of  unmentionable  good  things  to  the 
appetite ;  glossy,  green,  wood  chairs,  old  and  firm  ;  a  small  flag- 
bottomed  rocking-chair,  with  a  patchwork  cushion  in  it,  neatly 
contrived  out  of  small  pieces  of  different  colored  woollen  goods, 
and  a  larger  sized  one,  motherly  and  old,  whose  wide  arms 
breathed  hospitable  invitation,  seconded  by  the  solicitation  of 
its  feather  cushions,  —  a  real  comfortable,  persuasive  old  chair, 
and  worth,  in  the  way  of  honest,  homely  enjoyment,  a  dozen 
of  your  plush  or  brocheteUe  drawing-room  gentry ;  and  in  the 
chair,  gently  swaying  back  and  forward,  her  eyes  bent  on  some 
fine  sewing,  sat  our  old  friend  Eliza.  Yes,  there  she  is,  paler 
and  thinner  than  in  her  Kentucky  home,  with  a  world  of  quiet 
sorrow  lying  under  the  shadow  of  her  long  eyelashes,  and  mark 
ing  the  outline  of  her  gentle  mouth !  It  was  plain  to  see  how 
old  and  firm  the  girlish  heart  was  grown  under  the  discipline  of 
heavy  sorrow  ;  and  when,  anon,  her  large  dark  eye  was  raised 
to  follow  the  gambols  of  her  little  Harry,  who  was  sporting,  like 
some  tropical  butterfly,  hither  and  thither  over  the  floor,  she 
showed  a  depth  of  firmness  and  steady  resolve  that  was  never 
there  in  her  earlier  and  happier  days. 

By  her  side  sat  a  woman  with  a  bright  tin  pan  in  her  lap, 
into  which  she  was  carefully  sorting  some  dried  peaches.  She 
might  be  fifty-five  or  sixty ;  but  hers  was  one  of  those  faces 
that  time  seems  to  touch  only  to  brighten  and  adorn.  The 
snowy  lisse  crape  cap,  made  after  the  strait  Quaker  pattern,  — 
the  plain  white  muslin  handkerchief,  lying  in  placid  folds 
across  her  bosom,  —  the  drab  shawl  and  dress,  —  showed  at 


150  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB, 

once  the  community  to  which  she  belonged.  Her  fac«  was 
round  and  rosy,  with  a  healthful  downy  softness,  suggestive  of 
a  ripe  peach.  Her  hair,  partially  silvered  by  age,  was  parted 
smoothly  back  from  a  high  placid  forehead,  on  which  time  had 
written  no  inscription,  except  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men? 
and  beneath  shone  a  large  pair  of  clear,  honest,  loving  brown 
eyes ;  you  only  needed  to  look  straight  into  them,  to  feel  that 
you  saw  to  the  bottom  of  a  heart  as  good  and  true  as  ever 
throbbed  in  woman's  bosom.  So  much  has  been  said  and  sung 
of  beautiful  young  girls,  why  don't  somebody  wake  up  to  the 
beauty  of  old  women  ?  If  any  want  to  get  up  an  inspiration 
under  this  head,  we  refer  them  to  our  good  friend  Rachel  Hal- 
liday,  just  as  she  sits  there  in  her  little  rocking-chair.  It  had 
a  turn  for  quacking  and  squeaking,  —  that  chair  had,  —  either 
from  having  taken  cold  in  early  life,  or  from  some  asthmatic 
affection,  or  perhaps  from  nervous  derangement;  but,  as  she 
gently  swung  backward  and  forward,  the  chair  kept  up  a  kind  of 
subdued  "creechy  crawchy,"  that  would  have  been  intolerable 
in  any  other  chair.  But  old  Simeon  Halliday  often  declared  it 
was  as  good  as  any  music  to  him,  and  the  children  all  avowed 
that  they  would  n't  miss  of  hearing  mother's  chair  for  anything 
in  the  world.  For  why?  for  twenty  years  or  more,  notliing 
but  loving  words,  and  gentle  moralities,  and  motherly  loving 
kindness,  had  come  from  that  chair ;  —  headaches  and  heart 
aches  innumerable  had  been  cured  there,  —  difficulties  spiritual 
and  temporal  solved  there,  —  all  by  one  good,  loving  woman, 
God  bless  her  ! 

"And  so  thee  still  thinks  of  going  to  Canada,  Eliza?"  she 
said,  as  she  was  quietly  looking  over  her  peaches. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Eliza,  firmly.     "  I  must  go  onward.     I 
dare  not  stop." 

"And  what '11  thee  do,  when  thee  gets  there?     Thee  must 
think  about  that,  my  daughter." 

"  My  daughter  "  came  naturally  from  the  lips  of  Rachel  Hal 
liday  ;  for  hers  was  just  the  face  and  form  that  made  "  mother 
seem  the  most  natural  word  in  the  world. 

Eliza's  hands  trembled,  and  some  tears  fell  on  her  fine  work  ; 
but  she  answered,  firmly,  — 

"  I  shall  do  —  anything  I  can  find.     I  hope  I  can  find  some' 
thin  ov " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  151 

"  Thee  knows  thee  can  stay  here,  as  long  as  thee  pleases," 
said  Rachel. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Eliza,  "  but  "  —  she  pointed  to  Harry 
—  "I  can't  sleep  nights  ;  I  can't  rest.  Last  night  I  dreamed  I 
saw  that  man  coming  into  the  yard,"  she  said,  shuddering, 

"  Poor  child  ! "  said  Rachel,  wiping  her  eyes  ;  "  but  thee 
muet  n't  feel  so.  The  L'^rd  hath  ordered  it  so  that  never  hath 
a  fugitive  been  stolen  from  our  village.  I  trust  thine  will  not 
be  the  first." 

The  door  here  opened,  and  a  little  short,  round,  pincushiony 
woman  stood  at  the  door,  with  a  cheery,  blooming  face,  like  a 
ripe  apple.  She  was  dressed,  like  Rachel,  in  sober  gray,  with 
the  muslin  folded  neatly  across  her  round,  plump  little  chest. 

"  Ruth  Stedman,"  said  Rachel,  coming  joyfully  forward  ; 
"  how  is  thee,  Ruth  ?  "  she  said,  heartily  taking  both  her  hands. 

"Nicely,"  said  Ruth,  taking  off  her  little  drab  bonnet,  and 
dusting  it  with  her  handkerchief,  displaying,  as  she  did  so,  a 
round  little  head,  on  which  the  Quaker  cap  sat  with  a  sort  of 
jaunty  air,  despite  all  the  stroking  and  patting  of  the  small  fat 
hands,  which  were  busily  applied  to  arranging  it.  Certain  sti'&y 
locks  of  decidedly  curling  hair,  too,  had  escaped  here  and  there, 
and  had  to  be  coaxed  and  cajoled  into  their  place  again  ;  and 
then  the  new-comer,  who  might  have  been  five-and-twenty,  turned 
from  the  small  looking-glass,  before  which  she  had  been  mak 
ing  these  arrangements,  and  looked  well  pleased,  —  as  most 
people  who  looked  at  her  might  have  been,  —  for  she  was  de 
cidedly  a  wholesome,  whole-hearted,  chirruping  little  woman,  as 
ever  gladdened  man's  heart  withal. 

"  Ruth,  this  friend  is  Eliza  Harris  ;  and  this  is  the  little  boy 
I  told  thee  of." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  Eliza,  —  very,"  said  Ruth,  shaking 
hands,  as  if  Eliza  were  an  old  friend  she  had  long  been  expect 
ing  ;  "  and  this  is  thy  dear  boy,  —  I  brought  a  cake  for  him," 
she  said,  holding  out  a  little  heart  to  the  boy,  who  came  up, 
gazing  through  his  curls,  and  accepted  it  shyly. 

"  Where  's  thy  baby,  Ruth  ?  "  said  Rachel. 

"  Oh,  he 's  coming  ;  but  thy  Mary  caught  him  as  I  came  in, 
and  ran  off  with  him  to  the  barn,  to  show  him  to  the  children." 

A.t  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Mary,  an  honest,  rosy- 


152  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;    OR, 

looking  girl,  with  large  brown  eyes,  like  her  mother's,  came  in 
with  the  baby. 

"  Ah  !  ha  !  "  said  Rachel,  coming  up,  and  taking  the  great, 
white,  fat  fellow  in  her  arms ;  "  how  good  he  looks,  and  how  he 
does  grow !  " 

"To  be  sure,  he  does,"  said  little  bustling  Ruth,  as  she  took 
the  child,  and  began  taking  off  a  little  blue  silk  hood,  and  vari 
ous  layers  and  wrappers  of  outer  garments  ;  and  having  given 
a  twitch  here,  and  a  pull  there,  and  variously  adjusted  and  ar 
ranged  him,  and  kissed  him  heartily,  she  set  him  on  the  floor  to 
collect  his  thoughts.  Baby  seemed  quite  used  to  this  mode  of 
proceeding,  for  he  put  his  thumb  in  his  mouth  (as  if  it  were 
quite  a  thing  of  course),  and  seemed  soon  absorbed  in  his  own 
reflections,  while  the  mother  seated  herself,  and  taking  out  a 
long  stocking  of  mixed  blue  and  white  yarn,  began  to  knit  with 
briskness. 

"  Mary,  thee  'd  better  fill  the  kettle,  had  n't  thee  ?  "  gently 
suggested  the  mother. 

Mary  took  the  kettle  to  the  well,  and  soon  reappearing, 
placed  it  over  the  stove,  where  it  was  soon  purring  and  steam 
ing,  a  sort  of  censer  of  .hospitality  and  good  cheer.  The 
peaches,  moreover,  in  obedience  to  a  few  gentle  whispers  from 
Rachel,  were  soon  deposited,  by  the  same  hand,  in  a  stewpan 
over  the  fire. 

Rachel  now  took  down  a  snowy  moulding-board,  and,  tying 
on  an  apron,  proceeded  quietly  to  making  up  some  biscuits,  first 
saying  to  Mary,  "  Mary,  had  n't  thee  better  tell  John  to  get  a 
chicken  ready  ?  "  and  Mary  disappeared  accordingly. 

"  And  how  is  Abigail  Peters  ?  "  said  Rachel,  as  she  went  on 
with  her  biscuits. 

"  Oh,  she 's  better,"  said  Ruth ;  "  I  was  in,  this  morning, 
made  the  bed,  tidied  up  the  house.  Leah  Hills  went  in,  this 
afternoon,  and  baked  bread  and  pies  enough  to  last  some  days  ; 
and  I  engaged  to  go  back  to  get  her  up,  this  evening." 

"  I  will  go  in  to-morrow,  and  do  any  cleaning  there  may  be, 
and  look  over  the  mending,"  said  Rachel. 

"Ah!  that  is  well,"  said  Ruth.  "I've  heard,"  she  added, 
*  that  Hannah  Stanwood  is  sick.  John  was  up  there  last  night 
—  I  must  go  there  to-morrow." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  153 

"  Jofcn  can  come  in  here  to  his  meals,  if  thee  needs  to  stay 
all  day,"  suggested  Rachel. 

"  Thank  thee,  Rachel ;  will  see,  to-morrow ;  but,  here  comes 
Simeon." 

Simeon  Halliday,  a  tall,  straight,  muscular  man,  in  drab  coat 
and  pantaloons,  and  broad-brimmed  hat,  now  entered. 

"  How  is  thee,  Ruth  ?  "  he  said,  warmly,  as  he  spread  his 
broad  open  hand  for  her  little  fat  palm  ;  "  and  how  is  John  ?  " 

"  Oh,  John  is  well,  and  all  the  rest  of  our  folks,"  said  Ruth, 
cheerily. 

"  Any  news,  father  ?  "  said  Rachel,  as  she  was  putting  her 
biscuits  into  the  oven. 

"  Peter  Stebbins  told  me  that  they  should  be  along  to-night, 
with  friends,"  said  Simeon,  significantly,  as  he  was  washing  his 
hands  at  a  neat  sink,  in  a  little  back  porch. 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Rachel,  looking  thoughtfully,  and  glancing 
at  Eliza. 

"  Did  thee  say  thy  name  was  Harris  ?  "  said  Simeon  to  Eliza, 
as  he  reentered. 

Rachel  glanced  quickly  at  her  husband,  as  Eliza  tremulously 
answered  "  Yes  ;  "  her  fears,  ever  uppermost,  suggesting  that 
possibly  there  might  be  advertisements  out  for  her. 

"  Mother !  "  said  Simeon,  standing  in  the  porch,  and  calling 
Rachel  out. 

"  What  does  thee  want,  father  ?  "  said  Rachel,  rubbing  her 
floury  hands,  as  she  went  into  the  porch. 

"  This  child's  husband  is  in  the  settlement,  and  will  be  here 
to-night,"  said  Simeon. 

"  Now,  thee  does  n't  say  that,  father  ?  "  said  Rachel,  all  her 
face  radiant  with  joy. 

"  It  's  really  true.  Peter  was  down  yesterday,  with  the 
wagon,  to  the  other  stand,  and  there  he  found  an  old  woman 
and  two  men ;  and  one  said  his  name  was  George  Harris,  and, 
from  what  he  told  of  his  history,  I  am  certain  who  he  is.  He  is 
a  bright,  likely  fellow,  too." 

"  Shall  we  tell  her  now  ?  "  said  Simeon. 

"  Let  's  tell  Ruth,"  said  Rachel.  "  Here,  Ruth,  —  come 
Uere." 

Ruth  laid  down  her  knitting-work,  and  was  in  the  back  porch 
in  a  moment. 


154  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OB, 

" Ruth, what  does  thee  think?"  said  Rachel.  "Father  says 
Eliza's  husband  is  in  the  last  company,  and  will  be  here  to 
night." 

A  burst  of  joy  from  the  little  Quakeress  interrupted  the 
speech.  She  gave  such  a  bound  from  the  floor,  as  she  clapped 
her  little  hands,  that  two  stray  curls  fell  from  under  her  Quaker 
cap,  and  lay  brightly  on  her  white  neckerchief. 

"  Hush  thee,  dear  !  "  said  Rachel,  gently ;  "  hush,  Ruth !  Tell 
us,  shall  we  tell  her  now  ?  " 

"  Now !  to  be  sure,  —  this  very  minute.  Why,  now,  sup 
pose  't  was  my  John,  how  should  I  feel  ?  Do  tell  her,  right 
off." 

"  Thee  uses  thyself  only  to  learn  how  to  love  thy  neighbor, 
Ruth,"  said  Simeon,  looking,  with  a  beaming  face,  on  Ruth. 

"  To  be  sure.  Is  n't  it  what  we  are  made  for  ?  If  I  did  n't 
love  John  and  the  baby,  I  should  not  know  how  to  feel  for  her. 
Come,  now,  do  tell  her,  —  do  !  "  and  she  laid  her  hands  persua 
sively  on  Rachel's  arm.  "  Take  her  into  thy  bedroom,  there, 
and  let  me  fry  the  chicken  while  thee  does  it." 

Rachel  came  out  into  the  kitchen,  where  Eliza  was  sewing, 
and  opening  the  door  of  a  small  bedroom,  said,  gently,  "  Come 
in  here  with  me,  my  daughter  ;  I  have  news  to  tell  thee." 

The  blood  flushed  in  Eliza's  pale  face ;  she  rose,  trembling 
with  nervous  anxiety,  and  looked  towards  her  boy. 

"  No,  no,"  said  little  Ruth,  darting  up,  and  seizing  her  hands. 
"Never  thee  fear;  it  's  good  news,  Eliza, —go  in,  go  in!" 
And  she  gently  pushed  her  to  the  door,  which  closed  after  her ; 
and  then,  turning  round,  she  caught  little  Harry  in  her  arms, 
and  began  kissing  him. 

"  Thee  '11  see  thy  father,  little  one.  Does  thee  know  it  ?  Thy 
father  is  coming,"  she  said,  over  and  over  again,  as  the  boy 
looked  wonderingly  at  her. 

Meanwhile,  within  the  door,  another  scene  was  going  on. 
Rachel  Halliday  drew  Eliza  toward  her,  and  said,  "  The  Lord 
hath  had  mercy  on  thee,  daughter ;  thy  husband  hath  escaped 
from  the  house  of  bondage." 

The  blood  flushed  to  Eliza's  cheek  in  a  sudden  glow,  and 
went  back  to  her  heart  with  as  sudden  a  rush.  She  sat  down, 
pale  and  faint. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLYt  155 

"  Have  courage,  child,"  said  Rachel,  laying  her  hand  on  her 
head.  "  He  is  among  friends,  who  will  bring  him  here  to 
night." 

"To-night!"  Eliza  repeated,  "to-night!"  The  words  lost 
all  meaning  to  her ;  her  head  was  dreamy  and  confused ;  all 
was  mist  for  a  moment. 


When  she  awoke,  she  found  herself  snugly  tucked  up  on  the 
bed,  with  a  blanket  over  her,  and  little  Ruth  rubbing  her  hands 
with  camphor.  She  opened  her  eyes  in  a  state  of  dreamy, 
delicious  languor,  such  as  one  has  who  has  long  been  bearing 
a  heavy  load,  and  now  feels  it  gone,  and  would  rest.  The 
tension  of  the  nerves,  which  had  never  ceased  a  moment  since 
the  first  hour  of  her  flight,  had  given  way,  and  a  strange  feel 
ing  of  security  and  rest  came  over  her ;  and,  as  she  lay,  with 
her  large,  dark  eyes  open,  she  followed,  as  in  a  quiet  dream, 
the  motions  of  those  about  her.  She  saw  the  door  open  into 
the  other  room ;  saw  the  supper-table,  with  its  snowy  cloth ; 
heard  the  dreamy  murmur  of  the  singing  tea-kettle  ;  saw  Ruth 
tripping  backward  and  forward  with  plates  of  cake  and  saucers 
of  preserves,  and  ever  and  anon  stopping  to  put  a  cake  into 
Harry's  hand,  or  pat  his  head,  or  twine  his  long  curls  round 
her  snowy  fingers.  She  saw  the  ample,  motherly  form  of  Ra 
chel,  as  she  ever  and  anon  came  to  the  bedside,  and  smoothed 
and  arranged  something  about  the  bedclothes,  and  gave  a  tuck 
here  and  there,  by  way  of  expressing  her  good-will ;  and  was 
conscious  of  a  kind  of  sunshine  beaming  down  upon  her  from 
her  large,  clear,  brown  eyes.  She  saw  Ruth's  husband  come 
in,  —  saw  her  fly  up  to  him,  and  commence  whispering  very 
earnestly,  ever  and  anon,  with  impressive  gesture,  pointing  her 
little  finger  toward  the  room.  She  saw  her,  with  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  sitting  down  to  tea ;  she  saw  them  all  at  table,  and 
little  Harry  in  a  high-chair  under  the  shadow  of  Rachel's  ample 
wing ;  there  were  low  murmurs  of  talk,  gentle  tinkling  of  tea 
spoons,  and  musical  clatter  of  cups  and  saucers,  and  all  mingled 
in  a  delightful  dream  of  rest ;  and  Eliza  slept,  as  she  had  not 
slept  before,  since  the  fearful  midnight  hour  when  she  had 
taken  her  child  and  fled  through  the  frosty  starlight. 


156  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OB, 

She  dreamed  of  a  beautiful  country,  —  a  land,  it  seemed  to 
her,  of  rest,  —  green  shores,  pleasant  islands,  and  beautifully 
glittering  water ;  and  there,  in  a  house  which  kind  voices  told 
her  was  a  home,  she  saw  her  boy  playing,  a  free  and  happy 
child.  She  heard  her  husband's  footsteps ;  she  felt  him  com 
ing  nearer ;  his  arms  were  around  her,  his  tears  falling  on  her 
face,  and  she  awoke !  It  was  HO  dream.  The  daylight  had 
long  faded  ;  her  child  lay  calmly  sleeping  by  her  side  ;  a  candle 
was  burning  dimly  on  the  stand,  and  her  husband  was  sobbing 
by  her  pillow. 


The  next  morning  was  a  cheerful  one  at  the  Quaker  house. 
"  Mother  "  was  up  betimes,  and  surrounded  by  busy  girls  and 
boys,  whom  we  had  scarce  time  to  introduce  to  our  readers 
yesterday,  and  who  all  moved  obediently  to  Rachel's  gentle 
"  Thee  had  better,"  or  more  gentle  "  Had  n't  thee  better  ?  "  in 
the  work  of  getting  breakfast ;  for  a  breakfast  in  the  luxurious 
valleys  of  Indiana  is  a  thing  complicated  and  multiform,  and, 
like  picking  up  the  rose-leaves  and  trimming  the  bushes  in 
Paradise,  asking  other  hands  than  those  of  the  original  mother. 
While,  therefore,  John  ran  to  the  spring  for  fresh  water,  and 
Simeon  the  second  sifted  meal  for  corn-cakes,  and  Mary  ground 
coffee,  Rachel  moved  gently  and  quietly  about,  making  bis 
cuits,  cutting  up  chicken,  and  diffusing  a  sort  of  sunny  radi 
ance  over  the  whole  proceeding  generally.  If  there  was  any 
danger  of  friction  or  collision  from  the  ill-regulated  zeal  of  so 
many  young  operators,  her  gentle  "  Come  !  come !  "  or  "  I 
would  n't,  now,"  was  quite  sufficient  to  allay  the  difficulty. 
Bards  have  written  of  the  cestus  of  Venus,  that  turned  the 
heads  of  all  the  world  in  successive  generations.  We  had 
rather,  for  our  part,  have  the  cestus  of  Rachel  Halliday,  that 
kept  heads  from  being  turned,  and  made  everything  go  on 
harmoniously.  We  think  it  is  more  suited  to  our  modern  days, 
decidedly. 

While  all  other  preparations  were  going  on,  Simeon  the 
elder  stood  in  his  shirt-sleeves  before  a  little  looking-glass  in 
the  corner,  engaged  in  the  anti-patriarchal  operation  of  shaving. 
Everything  went  on  so  sociably,  so  quietly,  so  harmoniously,  in 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  157 

the  great  kitchen,  —  it  seemed  so  pleasant  to  every  one  to  do 
just  what  they  were  doing,  there  was  such  an  atmosphere  of 
mutual  confidence  and  good-fellowship  everywhere,  —  even  the 
knives  and  forks  had  a  social  clatter  as  they  went  on  to  the 
table ;  and  the  chicken  and  ham  had  a  cheerful  and  joyous  fiz 
zle  in  the  pan,  as  if  they  rather  enjoyed  being  cooked  than  other 
wise  ;  —  and  when  George  and  Eliza  and  little  Harry  came  out, 
they  met  such  a  hearty,  rejoicing  welcome,  no  wonder  it  seemed 
to  them  like  a  dream. 

At  last,  they  were  all  seated  at  breakfast,  while  Mary  stood 
at  the  stove  baking  griddle-cakes,  which,  as  they  gained  the 
true,  exact,  golden-brown  tint  of  perfection,  were  transferred 
quite  handily  to  the  table. 

Rachel  never  looked  so  truly  and  benignly  happy  as  at  th« 
head  of  her  table.  There  was  so  much  motherliness  and  full- 
heartedness  even  in  the  way  she  passed  a  plate  of  cakes  or 
poured  a  cup  of  coffee,  that  it  seemed  to  put  a  spirit  into  the 
food  and  drink  she  offered. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  ever  George  had  sat  down  on  equal 
terms  at  any  white  man's  table  ;  and  he  sat  down,  at  first, 
with  some  constraint  and  awkwardness;  but  they  all  exhaled 
and  went  off  like  fog,  in  the  genial  morning  rays  of  this  sim 
ple,  overflowing  kindness. 

This,  indeed  was  a  home,  —  home,  —  a  word  that  George 
had  never  yet  known  a  meaning  for;  and  a  belief  in  God,  and 
trust  in  his  providence,  began  to  encircle  his  heart,  as,  with  a 
golden  cloud  of  protection  and  confidence,  dark,  misanthropic, 
pining,  atheistic  doubts,  and  fierce  despair,  melted  away  before 
the  light  of  a  living  Gospel,  breathed  in  living  faces,  preached 
by  a  thousand  unconscious  acts  of  love  and  good-will,  which, 
like  the  cup  of  cold  water  given  in  the  name  of  a  disciple,  shall 
never  lose  their  reward. 

"  Father,  what  if  thee  should  get  found  out  again  ?  "  said 
Simeon  second,  as  he  buttered  his  cake. 

"  I  should  pay  my  fine,"  said  Simeon,  quietly. 

"  But  what  if  they  put  thee  in  prison  ?  " 

Could  n't  thee  and  mother  manage  the  farm?"  said  Simeon, 
smiling. 

"  Mother  can  do  almost  everything,"  said  the  boy.  "  But  is  n't 
it  a  shame  to  make  such  laws  ?  " 


158  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OB, 

"  Thee  must  n't  speak  evil  of  thy  rulers,  Simeon,"  said  his 
father,  gravely.  "  The  Lord  only  gives  us  our  worldly  goods 
that  we  may  do  justice  and  mercy  ;  if  our  rulers  require  a  price 
of  us  for  it,  we  must  deliver  it  up." 

"  Well,  I  hate  those  old  slave-holders !  "  said  the  boy,  who 
felt  as  unchristian  as  became  any  modern  reformer. 

"  I  am  surprised  at  thee,  son,"  said  Simeon ;  "  thy  mother 
never  taught  thee  so.  I  would  do  even  the  same  for  the  slave 
holder  as  for  the  slave,  if  the  Lord  brought  him  to  my  door  in 
affliction." 

Simeon  second  blushed  scarlet ;  but  his  mother  only  smiled, 
and  said,  "  Simeon  is  my  good  boy ;  he  will  grow  older,  by  and 
by,  and  then  he  will  be  like  his  father." 

"  I  hope,  my  good  sir,  that  you  are  not  exposed  to  any  diffi 
culty  on  our  account,"  said  George,  anxiously. 

"  Fear  nothing,  George,  for  therefore  are  we  sent  into  the 
world.  If  we  would  not  meet  trouble  for  a  good  cause,  we  were 
not  worthy  of  our  name." 

"  But,  for  me"  said  George,   "  I  could  not  bear  it." 

"  Fear  not,  then,  friend  George ;  it  is  not  for  thee,  but  for  God 
and  man,  we  do  it,"  said  Simeon.  "  And  now  thou  must  lie  by 
quietly  this  day,  and  to-night,  at  ten  o'clock,  Phineas  Fletcher 
will  carry  thee  onward  to  the  next  stand,  —  thee  and  the  rest  of 
thy  company.  The  pursuers  are  hard  after  thee  ;  we  must  not 
delay." 

"  If  that  is  the  case,  why  wait  till  evening  ?  "  said  George. 

"  Thou  art  safe  here  by  daylight,  for  every  one  in  the  settle 
ment  is  a  Friend,  and  all  are  watching.  It  has  been  found 
»a»  to  travel  by  night." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  159 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

EVANGELINE. 

"  A  young  star !  which  shone 
O'er  life,  —  too  sweet  an  image  for  such  glass  ! 
A  lovely  being,  scarcely  formed  or  moulded  ; 
A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded." 

THE  Mississippi !  How,  as  by  an  enchanted  wand,  hare  its 
scenes  been  changed,  since  Chateaubriand  wrote  his  prose-poetic 
description  of  it,  as  a  river  of  mighty,  unbroken  solitudes,  rolling 
amid  undreamed  wonders  of  vegetable  and  animal  existence. 

But,  as  in  an  hour,  this  river  of  dreams  and  wild  romance  has 
emerged  to  a  reality  scarcely  less  visionary  and  splendid.  What 
other  river  of  the  world  bears  on  its  bosom  to  the  ocean  the 
wealth  and  enterprise  of  such  another  country  ?  —  a  country 
whose  products  embrace  all  between  the  tropics  and  the  poles  ! 
Those  turbid  waters,  hurrying,  foaming,  tearing  along,  an  apt 
resemblance  of  that  headlong  tide  of  business  which  is  poured 
along  its  wave  by  a  race  more  vehement  and  energetic  than  any 
the  world  ever  saw.  Ah  !  would  that  they  did  not  also  bear 
along  a  more  fearful  freight,  —  the  tears  of  the  oppressed,  the 
sighs  of  the  helpless,  the  bitter  prayers  of  poor,  ignorant  hearts 
to  an  unknown  God,  —  unknown,  unseen,  and  silent,  but  who 
will  yet  "  come  out  of  his  place  to  save  all  the  poor  of  the 
earth!" 

The  slanting  light  of  the  setting  sun  quivers  on  the  sea-like 
expanse  of  the  river;  the  shivery  canes,  and  the  tall,  dark 
cypress,  hung  with  wreaths  of  dark,  funereal  moss,  glow  in  the 
golden  ray,  as  the  heavily  laden  steamboat  marches  onward. 

Piled  with  cotton-bales,  from  many  a  plantation,  up  over  deck 
and  sides,  till  she  seems  in  the  distance  a  square,  massive  block 
of  gray,  she  moves  heavily  onward  to  the  nearing  n>«rt.  We 
must  look  some  time  among  its  crowded  decks  befor*  we  shall 


160  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

find  again  our  humble  friend  Tom.  High  on  the  upper  deck,  in 
a  little  nook  among  the  everywhere  predominant  cotton-bales,  at 
last  we  may  find  him. 

Partly  from  confidence  inspired  by  Mr.  Shelby's  representa 
tions,  and  partly  from  the  remarkably  inoffensive  and  quiet 
character  of  the  man,  Tom  had  insensibly  won  his  way  far  into 
the  confidence  even  of  such  a  man  as  Haley. 

At  first  he  had  watched  him  narrowly  through  the  day,  and 
never  allowed  him  to  sleep  at  night  unfettered  ;  but  the  uncom 
plaining  patience  and  apparent  contentment  of  Tom's  manner  led 
him  gradually  to  discontinue  these  restraints,  and  for  some  time 
Tom  had  enjoyed  a  sort  of  parole  of  honor,  being  permitted  to 
come  and  go  freely  where  he  pleased  on  the  boat. 

Ever  quiet  and  obliging,  and  more  than  ready  to  lend  a  hand 
in  every  emergency  which  occurred  among  the  workmen  below, 
he  had  won  the  good  opinion  of  all  the  hands,  and  spent  many 
hours  in  helping  them  with  as  hearty  a  good-will  as  ever  he 
worked  on  a  Kentucky  farm. 

When  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  for  him  to  do,  he  would 
climb  to  a  nook  among  the  cotton-bales  of  the  upper  deck,  and 
busy  himself  in  studying  over  his  Bible,  —  and  it  is  there  we  see 
him  now. 

For  a  hundred  or  more  miles  above  New  Orleans,  the  river  is 
higher  than  the  surrounding  country,  and  rolls  its  tremendous 
volume  between  massive  levees  twenty  feet  in  height.  The 
traveller  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  as  from  some  floating 
castle  top,  overlooks  the  whole  country  for  miles  and  miles 
around.  Tom,  therefore,  had  spread  out  full  before  him,  in 
plantation  after  plantation,  a  map  of  the  life  to  which  he  was 
approaching. 

He  saw  the  distant  slaves  at  their  toil ;  he  saw  afar  their  vil 
lages  of  huts  gleaming  out  in  long  rows  on  many  a  plantation, 
distant  from  the  stately  mansions  and  pleasure-grounds  of  the 
master ;  —  and  as  the  moving  picture  passed  on,  his  poor,  foolish 
heart  would  be  turning  backward  to  the  Kentucky  farm,  with  its 
old  shadowy  beeches,  —  to  the  master's  house,  with  its  wide,  cool 
halls,  and,  near  by,  the  little  cabin,  overgrown  with  the  multi- 
flora  and  bignonia.  There  he  seemed  to  see  familiar  faces  of 
comrades,  who  had  grown  up  with  him  from  infancy  ;  he  saw 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  161 

his  busy  wife,  bustling  in  her  preparations  for  his  evening  meal ; 
he  heard  the  merry  laugh  of  his  boys  at  their  play,  and  the 
chirrup  of  the  baby  at  his  knee  ;  and  then,  with  a  start,  all  faded, 
and  he  saw  again  the  cane-brakes  and  cypresses  and  gliding 
plantations,  and  heard  again  the  creaking  and  groarning  of  the 
machinery,  all  telling  him  too  plainly  that  all  that  phase  of  life 
had  gone  by  forever. 

In  such  a  case,  you  write  to  your  wife,  and  send  messages  to 
your  children  ;  but  Tom  could  not  write,  —  the  mail  for  him 
had  no  existence,  and  the  gulf  of  separation  was  unbridged  by 
even  a  friendly  word  or  signal. 

Is  it  strange,  then,  that  some  tears  fall  on  the  pages  of  his 
Bible,  as  he  lays  it  on  the  cotton-bale,  and,  with  patient  finger, 
threading  his  slow  way  from  word  to  word,  traces  out  its  prom 
ises  ?  Having  learned  late  in  life,  Tom  was  but  a  slow  reader, 
and  passed  on  laboriously  from  verse  to  verse.  Fortunate  for 
him  was  it  that  the  book  he  was  intent  on  was  one  which  slow 
reading  cannot  injure,  —  nay,  one  whose  words,  like  ingots  of 
gold,  seem  often  to  need  to  be  weighed  separately,  that  the  mind 
may  take  in  their  priceless  value.  Let  us  follow  him  a  moment, 
as,  pointing  to  each  word,  and  pronouncing  each  half  aloud,  he 
reads,  — 

u  Let  —  not  —  your  —  heart  —  be  —  troubled.  In  —  my  — 
Father's  —  house  —  are  —  many  —  mansions.  I  —  go  —  to  — 
prepare  —  a  —  place  —  for  — you." 

Cicero,  when  he  buried  his  darling  and  only  daughter,  had  a 
heart  as  full  of  honest  grief  as  poor  Tom's,  —  perhaps  no  fuller, 
for  both  were  only  men ;  —  but  Cicero  could  pause  over  no  such 
sublime  words  of  hope,  and  look  to  no  such  future  reunion  ;  and 
if  he  had  seen  them,  ten  to  one  he  would  not  have  believed,  — 
he  must  fill  his  head  first  with  a  thousand  questions  of  authenti 
city  of  manuscript,  and  correctness  of  translation.  But,  to  poor 
Tom,  there  it  lay,  just  what  he  needed,  so  evidently  true  and 
divine  that  the  possibility  of  a  question  never  entered  his  simple 
head.  It  must  be  true  ;  for,  if  not  true,  how  could  he  live  ? 

As  for  Tom's  Bible,  though  it  had  no  annotations  and  helps  in 
margin  from  learned  commentators,  still  it  had  been  embellished 
with  certain  way-marks  and  guide-boards  of  Tom's  own  inven 
tion,  and  which  helped  him  more  than  the  most  learned  expo- 
11 


162  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

sitions  could  have  done.  It  had  been  his  custom  to  get  the  Bible 
read  to  him  by  his  master's  children,  in  particular  by  young 
Master  George  ;  and,  as  they  read,  he  would  designate,  by  bold, 
strong  marks  and  dashes,  with  pen  and  ink,  the  passages  which 
more  particularly  gratified  his  ear  or  affected  his  heart.  His 
Bible  was  thus  marked  through,  from  one  end  to  the  other,  with 
a  variety  of  styles  and  designations  ;  so  he  could  in  a  moment 
seize  upon  his  favorite  passages,  without  tfce  labor  of  spelling  out 
what  lay  between  them  —  and  while  it  lay  there  before  him, 
every  passage  breathing  of  some  old  home  scene,  and  recalling 
some  past  enjoyment,  his  Bible  seemed  to  him  all  of  this  life  that 
remained,  as  well  as  the  promise  of  a  future  one. 

Among  the  passengers  on  the  boat  was  a  young  gentleman 
of  fortune  and  family,  resident  in  New  Orleans,  who  bore  the 
name  of  St.  Clare.  He  had  with  him  a  daughter  between  five 
and  six  years  of  age,  together  with  a  lady  who  seemed  to  claim 
relationship  to  both,  and  to  have  the  little  one  especially  under 
her  charge. 

Tom  had  often  caught  glimpses  of  this  little  girl,  —  for  she 
was  one  of  those  busy,  tripping  creatures,  that  can  be  no  more 
contained  in  one  place  than  a  sunbeam  or  a  summer  breeze,  — 
nor  was  she  one  that,  once  seen,  could  be  easily  forgotten. 

Her  form  was  the  perfection  of  childish  beauty,  without  its 
usual  chubbiness  and  squareness  of  outline.  There  was  about 
it  an  undulating  and  aerial  grace,  such  as  one  might  dream  of 
for  some  mythic  and  allegorical  being.  Her  face  was  remark 
able,  less  for  its  perfect  beauty  of  feature  than  for  a  singular 
and  dreamy  earnestness  of  expression,  which  made  the  ideal 
start  when  they  looked  at  her,  and  by  which  the  dullest  and 
most  literal  were  impressed,  without  exactly  knowing  why. 
The  shape  of  her  head  and  the  turn  of  her  neck  and  bust  were 
peculiarly  noble,  and  the  long  golden-brown  hair  that  floated 
like  a  cloud  around  it,  the  deep  spiritual  gravity  of  her  violet 
blue  eyes,  shaded  by  heavy  fringes  of  golden  brown,  —  all 
marked  her  out  from  other  children,  and  made  every  one  turn 
and  look  after  her,  as  she  glided  hither  and  thither  on  the  boat. 
Nevertheless,  the  little  one  was  not  what  you  would  have  called 
either  a  grave  child  or  a  sad  one.  On  the  contrary,  an  airy 
aad  innocent  playfulness  seemed  to  flicker  like  the  shadow  of 


LIFE   AMOXG   THE   LOWLY.  168 

gummer  leaves  over  her  childish  face,  and  around  her  buoyant 
figure.  She  was  always  in  motion,  always  with  a  half-smile  on 
her  rosy  mouth,  flying  hither  and  thither,  with  an  undulating 
and  cloud-like  tread,  singing  to  herself  as  she  moved,  as  in  a 
happy  dream.  Her  father  and  female  guardian  were  inces 
santly  busy  in  pursuit  of  her,  —  but,  when  caught,  she  melted 
from  them  again  like  a  summer  cloud;  and  as  no  word  of 
chiding  or  reproof  ever  fell  on  her  ear  for  whatever  she  chose 
to  do,  she  pursued  her  own  way  all  over  the  boat.  Always 
dressed  in  white,  she  seemed  to  move  like  a  shadow  through  all 
sorts  of  places,  without  contracting  spot  or  stain;  and  there 
was  not  a  corner  or  nook,  above  or  below,  where  those  fairy 
footsteps  had  not  glided,  and  that  visionary,  golden  head,  with 
its  deep  blue  eyes,  fleeted  along. 

The  fireman,  as  he  looked  up  from  his  sweaty  toil,  some 
times  found  those  eyes  looking  wonderingly  into  the  raging- 
depths  of  the  furnace,  and  fearfully  and  pityingly  at  him,  as 
if  she  thought  him  in  some  dreadful  danger.  Anon  the  steers 
man  at  the  wheel  paused  and  smiled,  as  the  picture-like  head 
gleamed  through  the  window  of  the  round-house,  and  in  a 
moment  was  gone  again.  A  thousand  times  a  day  rough  voices 
blessed  her,  and  smiles  of  unwonted  softness  stole  over  hard 
faces,  as  she  passed  ;  and  when  she  tripped  fearlessly  over  dan 
gerous  places,  rough,  sooty  hands  were  stretched  involuntarily 
out  to  save  her,  and  smooth  her  path. 

Tom,  who  had  the  soft,  impressible  nature  of  his  kindly 
race,  ever  yearning  toward  the  simple  and  childlike,  watched 
the  little  creature  with  daily  increasing  interest.  To  him  she 
seemed  something  almost  divine ;  and  whenever  her  golden 
head  and  deep  blue  eyes  peered  out  upon  him  from  behind 
some  dusky  cotton-bale,  or  looked  down  upon  him  over  some 
ridge  of  packages,  he  half  believed  that  he  saw  one  of  the 
angels  stepped  out  of  his  New  Testament. 

Often  and  often  she  walked  mournfully  round  the  place 
where  Haley's  gang  of  men  and  women  sat  in  their  chains. 
She  would  glide  in  among  them,  and  look  at  them  with  an  air 
of  perplexed  and  sorrowful  earnestness ;  and  sometimes  she 
would  lift  their  chains  with  her  slender  hands,  and  then  sigh 
wofully,  as  she  glided  away.  Several  times  she  appeared  sud- 


164  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

denly  among  them,  with  her  hands  full  of  candy,  nuts,  and 
oranges,  which  she  would  distribute  joyfully  to  them,  and  then 
be  gone  again. 

Tom  watched  the  little  lady  a  great  deal,  before  he  ventured 
on  any  overtures  towards  acquaintanceship.  He  knew  an  abun 
dance  of  simple  acts  to  propitiate  and  invite  the  approaches 
of  the  little  people,  and  he  resolved  to  play  his  part  right 
skilfully.  He  could  cut  cunning  little  baskets  out  of  cherry 
stones,  could  make  grotesque  faces  on  hickory-nuts,  or  odd- 
jumping  figures  out  of  elder-pith,  and  he  was  a  very  Pan  in 
the  manufacture  of  whistles  of  all  sizes  and  sorts.  His  pockets 
were  full  of  miscellaneous  articles  of  attraction,  which  he  had 
hoarded  in  days  of  old  for  his  master's  children,  and  which  he 
now  produced,  with  commendable  prudence  and  economy,  one 
by  one,  as  overtures  for  acquaintance  and  friendship. 

The  little  one  was  shy,  for  all  her  busy  interest  in  everything 
going  on,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  tame  her.  For  a  while,  she 
would  perch  like  a  canary-bird  on  some  box  or  package  near 
Tom,  while  busy  in  the  little  arts  aforenamed,  and  take  from 
him,  with  a  kind  of  grave  bashfulness,  the  little  articles  he 
offered.  But  at  last  they  got  on  quite  confidential  terms. 

"  What  's  little  missy's  name  ?  "  said  Tom,  at  last,  when  he 
thought  matters  were  ripe  to  push  such  an  inquiry. 

"  Evangeline  St.  Clare,"  said  the  little  one,  "  though  papa 
and  everybody  else  call  me  Eva.  Now,  what  's  your  name  ?  " 

"  My  name  's  Tom ;  the  little  chil'en  used  to  call  me  Uncle 
Tom,  way  back  thar  in  Kentuck." 

"  Then  I  mean  to  call  you  Uncle  Tom,  because,  you  see,  I 
like  you,"  said  Eva.  "  So,  Uncle  Tom,  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Miss  Eva." 

"  Don't  know?"  said  Eva. 

"  No.  I  am  going  to  be  sold  to  somebody.  I  don't  know 
who." 

"  My  papa  can  buy  you,"  said  Eva,  quickly  ;  "  and  if  he 
buys  you,  you  will  have  good  times.  I  mean  to  ask  him  to,  this 
very  day." 

"  Thank  you,  my  little  lady,"  said  Tom. 

The  boat  here  stopped  at  a  small  landing  to  take  in  wood, 
and  Eva,  hearing  her  father's  voice,  bounded  nimbly  away, 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  165 

Tom  rose  up,  and  went  forward  to  offer  his  service  in  wooding, 
and  soon  was  busy  among  the  hands. 

Eva  and  her  father  were  standing  together  by  the  railings  to 
see  the  boat  start  from  the  landing-place,  the  wheel  had  made 
two  or  three  revolutions  in  the  water,  when,  by  some  sudden 
movement,  the  little  one  suddenly  lost  her  balance,  and  fell 
sheer  over  the  side  of  the  boat  into  the  water.  Her  father, 
scarce  knowing  what  he  did,  was  plunging  in  after  her,  but  was 
held  back  by  some  behind  him,  who  saw  that  more  efficient  aid 
had  f oh1  owed  his  child. 

Tom  was  standing  just  under  her  on  the  lower  deck,  as  she 
fell.  He  saw  her  strike  the  water,  and  sink,  and  was  after  her 
in  a  moment.  A  broad-chested,  strong-armed  fellow,  it  was 
nothing  for  him  to  keep  afloat  in  the  water,  till,  in  a  moment 
or  two,  the  child  rose  to  the  surface,  and  he  caught  her  in  his 
arms,  and,  swimming  with  her  to  the  boat-side,  handed  her  up, 
all  dripping,  to  the  grasp  of  hundreds  of  hands,  which,  as  if 
they  had  all  belonged  to  one  man,  were  stretched  eagerly  out 
to  receive  her.  A  few  moments  more,  and  her  father  bore  her, 
dripping  and  senseless,  to  the  ladies'  cabin,  where,  as  is  usual 
in  cases  of  the  kind,  there  ensued  a  very  well-meaning  and 
kind-hearted  strife  among  the  female  occupants  generally,  as  to 
who  should  do  the  most  things  to  make  a  disturbance,  and  to 
hinder  her  recovery  in  every  way  possible. 


It  was  a  sultry,  close  day,  the  next  day,  as  the  steamer  drew 
near  to  New  Orleans.  A  general  bustle  of  expectation  and 
preparation  was  spread  through  the  boat ;  in  the  cabin,  one  and 
another  were  gathering  their  things  together,  and  arranging 
them,  preparatory  to  going  ashore.  The  steward  and  cham 
bermaid,  and  all,  were  busily  engaged  in  cleaning,  furbishing, 
and  arranging  the  splendid  boat,  preparatory  to  a  grand  entree. 

On  the  lower  deck  sat  our  friend  Tom,  with  his  arms  folded, 
and  anxiously,  from  time  to  time,  turning  his  eyes  towards  a 
group  on  the  other  side  of  the  boat. 

There  stood  the  fair  Evangeline,  a  little  paler  than  the  day 
before,  but  otherwise  exhibiting  no  traces  of  the  accident  which 


166  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

had  befallen  her.  A  graceful,  elegantly  formed  young  man 
stood  by  her,  carelessly  leaning  one  elbow  on  a  bale  of  cotton, 
while  a  large  pocket-book  lay  open  before  him.  It  was  quite 
evident,  at  a  glance,  that  the  gentleman  was  Eva's  father. 
There  was  the  same  noble  cast  of  head,  the  same  large  blue 
eyes,  the  same  golden-brown  hair ;  yet  the  expression  was  wholly 
different.  In  the  large,  clear,  blue  eyes,  though  in  form  and 
color  exactly  similar,  there  was  wanting  that  misty,  dreamy 
depth  of  expression ;  all  was  clear,  bold,  and  bright,  but  with  a 
light  wholly  of  this  world :  the  beautifully  cut  mouth  had  a  proud 
and  somewhat  sarcastic  expression,  while  an  air  of  free-and-easy 
superiority  sat  not  ungracefully  in  every  turn  and  movement  of 
his  fine  form.  He  was  listening,  with  a  good-humored,  neg 
ligent  air,  half  comic,  half  contemptuous,  to  Haley,  who  was  very 
volubly  expatiating  on  the  quality  of  the  article  for  which  they 
were  bargaining. 

"  All  the  moral  and  Christian  virtues  bound  in  black  morocco, 
complete  !  "  he  said,  when  Haley  had  finished.  "  Well,  now, 
my  good  fellow,  what 's  the  damage,  as  they  say  in  Kentucky ; 
in  short,  what 's  to  be  paid  out  for  this  business  ?  How  much 
are  you  going  to  cheat  me,  now  ?  Out  with  it !  " 

"  Wai,"  said  Haley,  "  if  I  should  say  thirteen  hundred  dol 
lars  for  that  ar  fellow,  I  should  n't  but  just  save  myself ;  I 
should  n't,  now,  rely." 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  said  the  young  man,  fixing  his  keen,  mock 
ing,  blue  eye  on  him ;  "  but  I  suppose  you  'd  let  me  have  him 
for  that,  out  of  a  particular  regard  for  me." 

"  Wai,  the  young  lady  here  seems  to  be  sot  on  him,  and 
nat'lly  enough." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  there  's  a  call  on  your  benevolence,  my  friend. 
Now,  as  a  matter  of  Christian  charity,  how  cheap  could  you  af 
ford  to  let  him  go,  to  oblige  a  young  lady  that 's  particular  sot 
on  him  ?  " 

"  Wai,  now,  just  think  on't,"  said  the  trader  ;  "  just  look  at 
them  limbs,  —  broad-chested,  strong  as  a,  horse.  Look  at  his 
head ;  them  high  forrads  allays  shows  calculatin'  niggers,  that 
'11  do  any  land  o'  thing.  I  Ve  marked  that  ar.  Now,  a  nigger 
of  that  ar  heft  and  build  is  worth  considerable,  just,  as  you  ma} 
say,  for  his  body,  supposin'  he 's  stupid  ;  but  come  to  put  in  his 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  167 

ealculatin'  faculties,  and  them  which  I  can  show  he  has  oncom- 
mon,  why,  of  course,  it  makes  him  come  higher.  Why,  that  ar 
fellow  managed  his  master's  whole  farm.  He  has  a  strornary 
talent  for  business." 

"  Bad,  bad,  very  bad  ;  knows  altogether  too  much !  "  said 
the  young  man,  with  the  same  mocking  smile  playing  about  his 
mouth.  "  Never  will  do,  in  the  world.  Your  smart  fellows  are 
always  running  off,  stealing  horses,  and  raising  the  devil  gener 
ally.  I  think  you  '11  have  to  take  off  a  couple  of  hundred  for 
his  smartness." 

"  Wai,  there  might  be  something  in  that  ar,  if  it  warn't  for 
his  character ;  but  I  can  show  recommends  from  his  master  and 
others,  to  prove  he  is  one  of  your  real  pious,  —  the  most  humble, 
prayin',  pious  crittur  ye  ever  did  see.  Why,  he  's  been  called  a 
preacher  in  them  parts  he  came  from." 

"  And  I  might  use  him  for  a  family  chaplain,  possibly,"  added 
the  young  man,  dryly.     a  That 's  quite  an  idea.     Religion  is  a 
remarkably  scarce  article  at  our  house." 
"  You  're  joking,  now." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  am  ?  Did  n't  you  just  warrant  him  for 
a  preacher  ?  Has  he  been  examined  by  any  synod  or  council  ? 
Come,  hand  over  your  papers." 

If  the  trader  had  not  been  sure,  by  a  certain  good-humored 
twinlde  in  the  large,  blue  eye,  that  all  this  banter  was  sure,  in 
the  long  run,  to  turn  out  a  cash  concern,  he  might  have  been 
somewhat  out  of  patience ;  as  it  was,  he  laid  down  a  greasy 
pocket-book  on  the  cotton-bales,  and  began  anxiously  studying 
over  certain  papers  in  it,  the  young  man  standing  by,  the  while, 
looking  down  on  him  with  an  air  of  careless,  easy  drollery. 

"  Papa,  do  buy  him  !  it 's  no  matter  what  you  pay,"  whispered 
Eva,  softly,  getting  up  on  a  package,  and  putting  her  arm  around 
her  father's  neck.  "  You  have  money  enough,  I  know.  I  want 
him." 

"  What  for,  pussy  ?     Are  you  going  to  use  him  for  a  rattle- 
box,  or  a  rocking-horse,  or  what  ?  " 
"  I  want  to  make  him  happy." 
"  An  original  reason,  certainly." 

Here  the  trader  handed  up  a  certificate,  signed  by  Mr.  Shelby, 
which  the  young  man  took  with  the  tips  of  his  long  fingers,  and 
glanced  over  carelessly. 


168  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  A  gentlemanly  hand,"  he  said,  "  and  well  spelt,  too.  Well, 
now,  but  I  'm  not  sure,  after  all,  about  thia  religion,"  said  he, 
the  old  wicked  expression  returning  to  his  eye  ;  "  the  country  is 
almost  ruined  with  pious  white  people  :  such  pious  politicians  as 
we  have  just  before  elections,  —  such  pious  goings  on  in  all  de 
partments  of  church  and  state,  that  a  fellow  does  not  know 
who  '11  cheat  him  next.  I  don't  know,  either,  about  religion  's 
being  up  in  the  market,  just  now.  I  have  not  looked  in  the 
papers  lately,  to  see  how  it  sells.  How  many  hundred  dollars, 
now,  do  you  put  on  for  this  religion  ?  " 

"  You  like  to  be  a  jokin',  now,"  said  the  trader ;  "  but,  then, 
there  's  sense  under  all  that  ar.  I  know  there  's  differences  in 
religion.  Some  kinds  is  miserable  :  there  's  your  meetin'  pious ; 
there  's  your  singin',  roarin'  pious  ;  them  ar  an't  no  account,  in 
black  or  white  ;  —  but  these  raily  is  ;  and  I  've  seen  it  in  nig 
gers  as  often  as  any,  your  rail  softly,  quiet,  stiddy,  honest  pious, 
that  the  hull  world  could  n't  tempt  'em  to  do  nothing  that  they 
thinks  is  wrong  ;  and  ye  see  in  this  letter  what  Tom's  old  mas 
ter  says  about  him." 

"  Now,"  said  the  young  man,  stooping  gravely  over  his  book 
of  bills,  "  if  you  can  assure  me  that  I  really  can  buy  this  kind 
of  pious,  and  that  it  will  be  set  down  to  my  account  in  the  book 
up  above,  as  something  belonging  to  me,  I  would  n't  care  if  I 
did  go  a  little  extra  for  it.  TIow  d'  ye  say  ?  " 

"Wai,  raily,  I  can't  do  that,"  said  the  trader.  "I'm  a 
thinkin'  that  every  man  '11  have  to  hang  on  his  own  hook,  in 
them  ar  quarters." 

"  Rather  hard  on  a  fellow  that  pays  extra  on  religion,  and 
can't  trade  with  it  in  the  state  where  he  wants  it  most,  an't  it, 
now  ?  "  said  the  young  man,  who  had  been  making  out  a  roll  of 
bills  while  he  was  speaking.  "  There,  count  your  money,  old 
boy  !  "  he  added,  as  he  handed  the  roll  to  the  trader. 

"  All  right,"  said  Haley,  his  face  beaming  with  delight ;  and 
pulling  out  an  old  inkhorn,  he  proceeded  to  fill  out  a  bill  of  sale, 
which,  in  a  few  moments,  he  handed  to  the  young  man. 

"  I  wonder,  now,  if  I  was  divided  up  and  inventoried,"  said 
the  latter,  as  he  ran  over  the  paper,  "  how  much  I  might  bring. 
Say  so  much  for  the  shape  of  my  head,  so  much  for  a  high  fore 
head,  so  much  for  anna,  and  hands,  and  legs,  and  then  so  much 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  169 

for  education,  learning,  talent,  honesty,  religion !  Bless  me ! 
there  would  be  small  charge  on  that  last,  I  'm  thinking.  But 
come.  Eva,"  he  said  ;  and  taking  the  hand  of  his  daughter,  he 
stepped  across  the  boat,  and  carelessly  putting  the  tip  of  his 
finger  under  Tom's  chin,  said,  good-humoredly,  "  Look  up,  Torn, 
and  see  how  you  like  your  new  master." 

Tom  looked  up.  It  was  not  in  nature  to  look  into  that  gay, 
young,  handsome  face,  without  a  feeling  of  pleasure  ;  and  Tom 
felt  the  tears  start  in  his  eyes  as  he  said,  heartily,  "  God  bless 
you,  Mas'r  I  " 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  will.  What 's  your  name  ?  Tom  ?  Quite 
as  likely  to  do  it  for  your  asking  as  mine,  from  all  accounts. 
Can  you  drive  horses,  Tom?  " 

"  I  Ve  been  allays  used  to  horses,"  said  Tom.  "  Mas'r 
Shelby  raised  heaps  on  'em." 

4<  Well,  I  think  I  shall  put  you  in  coachy,  on  condition  that 
you  won't  be  drunk  more  than  once  a  week,  unless  in  cases  of 
emergency,  Tom." 

Tom  looked  surprised,  and  rather  hurt,  and  said,  "  I  never 
drink,  Mas'r." 

"I've  heard  that  story  before,  Tom;  but  then  we  '11  see. 
It  will  be  a  special  accommodation  to  all  concerned,  if  you 
don't.  Never  mind,  my  boy,"  he  added,  good-humoredly, 
seeing  Tom  still  looked  grave ;  "I  don't  doubt  you  mean  to 
do  well." 

"  I  sartin  do,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom. 

"  And  you  shall  have  good  times,"  said  Eva.  "  Papa  is  very 
good  to  everybody,  only  he  always  will  laugh  at  them." 

"  Papa  is  much  obliged  to  you  for  his  recommendation," 
said  St.  Clare,  laughing,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
away. 


170  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OK, 


CHAPTER  XV. 

OP  TOM'S   NEW   MASTER,   AND   VARIOUS   OTHER   MATTERS. 

SINCE  the  thread  of  our  humble  hero's  life  has  now  become 
interwoven  with  that  of  higher  ones,  it  is  necessary  to  give 
some  brief  introduction  to  them. 

Augustine  St.  Clare  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  planter  of 
Louisiana.  The  family  had  its  origin  in  Canada.  Of  two 
brothers,  very  similar  in  temperament  and  character,  one  had 
settled  on  a  flourishing  farm  in  Vermont,  and  the  other  became 
an  opulent  planter  in  Louisiana.  The  mother  of  Augustine 
was  a  Huguenot  French  lady,  whose  family  had  emigrated  to 
Louisiana  during  the  days  of  its  early  settlement.  Augustine 
and  another  brother  were  the  only  children  of  their  parents. 
Having  inherited  from  his  mother  an  exceeding  delicacy  of  con 
stitution,  he  was,  at  the  instance  of  physicians,  during  many 
years  of  his  boyhood,  sent  to  the  care  of  his  uncle  in  Vermont, 
in  order  that  his  constitution  might  be  strengthened  by  the  cold 
of  a  more  bracing  climate. 

In  childhood,  he  was  remarkable  for  an  extreme  and  marked 
sensitiveness  of  character,  more  akin  to  the  softness  of  woman 
than  the  ordinary  hardness  of  his  own  sex.  Time,  however, 
overgrew  this  softness  with  the  rough  bark  of  manhood,  and 
but  few  knew  how  living  and  fresh  it  still  lay  at  the  core.  His 
talents  were  of  the  very  first  order,  although  his  mind  showed  a 
preference  always  for  the  ideal  and  the  aesthetic,  and  there  was 
about  him  that  repugnance  to  the  actual  business  of  life  which 
is  the  common  result  of  this  balance  of  the  faculties.  Soon 
after  the  completion  of  his  college  course,  his  whole  nature  was 
kindled  into  one  intense  and  passionate  effervescence  of  ro 
mantic  passion.  His  hour  came,  —  the  hour  that  comes  only 
once  ;  his  star  rose  in  the  horizon,  —  that  star  that  rises  so  often 
in  vain,  to  be  remembered  only  as  a  thing  of  dreams  ;  and  it 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  171 

rose  for  him  in  vain.  To  drop  the  figure,  —  he  saw  and  won 
the  love  of  a  high-minded  and  beautiful  woman,  in  one  of  the 
Northern  States,  and  they  were  affianced.  He  returned  south 
to  make  arrangements  for  their  marriage,  when,  most  unex 
pectedly,  his  letters  were  returned  to  him  by  mail,  with  a  short 
note  from  her  guardian,  stating  to  him  that  ere  this  reached 
him  the  lady  would  be  the  wife  of  another.  Stung  to  madness, 
he  vainly  hoped,  as  many  another  has  done,  to  fling  the  whole 
thing  from  his  heart  by  one  desperate  effort.  Too  proud  to 
supplicate  or  seek  explanation,  he  threw  himself  at  once  into  a 
whirl  of  fashionable  society,  and  in  a  fortnight  from  the  time  of 
the  fatal  letter  was  the  accepted  lover  of  the  reigning  belle  of 
the  season ;  and  as  soon  as  arrangements  could  be  made,  he 
became  the  husband  of  a  fine  figure,  a  pair  of  bright,  dark  eyes, 
and  a  hundred  thousand  dollars;  and,  of  course,  everybody 
thought  him  a  happy  fellow. 

The  married  couple  were  enjoying  their  honeymoon,  and 
entertaining  a  brilliant  circle  of  friends  in  their  splendid  villa, 
near  Lake  Pontchartrain,  when,  one  day,  a  letter  was  brought 
to  him  in  that  well-remembered  writing.  It  was  handed  to  him 
while  ke  was  in  full  tide  of  gay  and  successful  conversation  in  a 
whole  roomful  of  company.  He  turned  deadly  pale  when  he 
saw  the  writing,  but  still  preserved  his  composure,  and  finished 
the  playful  warfare  of  badinage  which  he  was  at  the  moment 
carrying  on  with  a  lady  opposite  ;  and,  a  short  time  after,  was 
missed  from  the  circle.  In  his  room,  alone,  he  opened  and  read 
the  letter,  now  worse  than  idle  and  useless  to  be  read.  It  was 
from  her,  giving  a  long  account  of  a  persecution  to  which  she 
had  been  exposed  by  her  guardian's  family,  to  lead  her  to  unite 
herself  with  their  son ;  and  she  related  how,  for  a  long  time, 
his  letters  had  ceased  to  arrive ;  how  she  had  written  time  and 
again,  till  she  became  weary  and  doubtful ;  how  her  health  had 
failed  under  her  anxieties,  and  how,  at  last,  she  had  discovered 
the  whole  fraud  which  had  been  practised  on  them  both.  The 
letter  ended  with  expressions  of  hope  and  thankfulness,  and 
professions  of  undying  affection,  which  were  more  bitter  than 
death  to  the  unhappy  young  man.  He  wrote  to  her  imme 
diately  :  — 

"  I   have    received   youre,  —  but  too  late.     I  believed  all  I 


172  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

heard.     I  was  desperate.    /  am  married,  and  all  is  over.    Only 
forget,  —  it  is  all  that  remains  for  either  of  us." 

And  thus  ended  the  whole  romance  and  ideal  of  life  for 
Augustine  St.  Clare.  But  the  real  remained,  —  the  real,  like 
the  flat,  bare,  oozy  tide-mud,  when  the  blue,  sparkling  wave, 
with  all  its  company  of  gliding  boats  and  white-winged  ships, 
its  music  of  oars  and  chiming  waters,  has  gone  down,  and  there 
it  lies,  flat,  slimy,  bare,  —  exceedingly  real. 

Of  course,  in  a  novel,  people's  hearts  break,  and  they  die,  and 
that  is  the  end  of  it ;  and  in  a  story  this  is  very  convenient. 
But  in  real  life  we  do  not  die  when  all  that  makes  life  bright 
dies  to  us.  There  is  a  most  busy  and  important  round  of 
eating,  drinking,  dressing,  walking,  visiting,  buying,  selling, 
talking,  reading,  and  all  that  makes  up  what  is  commonly  called 
living,  yet  to  be  gone  through;  and  this  yet  remained  to 
Augustine.  Had  his  wife  been  a  whole  woman,  she  might  yet 
have  done  something  —  as  woman  can  —  to  mend  the  broken 
threads  of  life,  and  weave  them  again  into  a  tissue  of  bright 
ness.  But  Marie  St.  Clare  could  not  even  see  that  they  had 
been  broken.  As  before  stated,  she  consisted  of  a  fine  figure, 
a  pair  of  splendid  eyes,  and  a  hundred  thousand  dollars ;  and 
none  of  these  items  were  precisely  the  ones  to  minister  to  a 
mind  diseased. 

When  Augustine,  pale  as  death,  was  found  lying  on  the  sofa, 
and  pleaded  sudden  sick-headache  as  the  cause  of  his  distress, 
she  recommended  to  him  to  smell  of  hartshorn  ;  and  when  the 
paleness  and  headache  came  on  week  after  week,  she  only  said 
that  she  never  thought  Mr.  St.  Clare  was  sickly  ;  but  it  seems 
he  was  very  liable  to  sick-headaches,  and  that  it  was  a  very  un 
fortunate  thing  for  her,  because  he  did  n't  enjoy  going  into 
company  with  her,  and  it  seemed  odd  to  go  so  much  alone, 
when  they  were  just  married.  Augustine  was  glad  in  his  heart 
that  he  had  married  so  undiscerning  a  woman  ;  but  as  the 
glosses  and  civilities  of  the  honeymoon  wore  away,  he  dis' 
covered  that  a  beautiful  young  woman,  who  has  lived  all  her 
life  to  be  caressed  and  waited  on  might  prove  quite  a  hard 
mistress  in  domestic  life.  Marie  never  had  possessed  much 
capability  of  affection,  or  much  sensibility,  and  the  little  that 
!he  had,  had  been  merged  into  a  most  intense  and  uneonsciout 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  178 

alfishness;  a  selfishness  the  more  hopeless,  from  its  quiet 
btuseness,  its  utter  ignorance  of  any  claims  but  her  own. 
Vom  her  infancy,  she  had  been  surrounded  with  servants,  who 
ved  only  to  study  her  caprices ;  the  idea  that  they  had  either 
elings  or  rights  had  never  dawned  upon  her,  even  in  distant 
perspective.  Her  father,  whose  only  child  she  had  been,  had 
never  denied  her  anything  that  lay  within  the  compass  of 
human  possibility;  and  when  she  entered  life,  beautiful,  ac 
complished,  and  an  heiress,  she  had,  of  course,  all  the  eligibles 
and  non-eligibles  of  the  other  sex  sighing  at  her  feet,  and  she 
had  no  doubt  that  Augustine  was  a  most  fortunate  man  in 
having  obtained  her.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  a 
woman  with  no  heart  will  be  an  easy  creditor  in  the  exchange 
of  affection.  There  is  not  on  earth  a  more  merciless  exactor  of 
love  from  others  than  a  thoroughly  selfish  woman  ;  and  the 
more  unlovely  she  grows,  the  more  jealously  and  scrupulously 
she  exacts  love,  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  When,  therefore, 
St.  Clare  began  to  drop  off  those  gallantries  and  small  attentions 
which  flowed  at  first  through  the  habitude  of  courtship,  he 
found  his  sultana  no  way  ready  to  resign  her  slave  ;  there  were 
abundance  of  tears,  poutings,  and  small  tempests  ;  there  were 
discontents,  pinings,  upbraidings.  St.  Clare  was  good-natured 
and  self-indulgent,  and  sought  to  buy  off  with  presents  and 
flatteries ;  and  when  Marie  became  mother  to  a  beautiful 
daughter,  he  really  felt  awakened,  for  a  time,  to  something  like 
tenderness. 

St.  Clare's  mother  had  been  a  woman  of  uncommon  elevation 
and  purity  of  character,  and  he  gave  to  this  child  his  mother's 
name,  fondly  fancying  that  she  would  prove  a  reproduction  of 
her  image.  The  thing  had  been  remarked  with  petulant  jeal 
ousy  by  his  wife,  and  she  regarded  her  husband's  absorbing  de 
votion  to  the  child  with  suspicion  and  dislike  ;  all  that  was 
given  to  her  seemed  so  much  taken  from  herself.  From  the 
time  of  the  birth  of  this  child,  her  health  gradually  sunk.  A 
life  of  constant  inaction,  bodily  and  mental,  —  the  friction  of 
ceaseless  ennui  and  discontent,  united  to  the  ordinary  weakness 
which  attended  the  period  of  maternity,  —  in  course  of  a  few 
years  changed  the  blooming  young  belle  into  a  yellow,  faded, 
sick'  ^oman,  whose  time  was  divided  among  a  variety  of  fan- 


174  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;    OR, 

ciful  diseases,  and  who  considered  herself,  in  every  gense,  the 
most  ill-used  and  suffering  person  in  existence. 

There  was  no  end  of  her  various  complaints ;  but  her  prin 
cipal  forte  appeared  to  lie  in  sick-headache,  which  sometimes 
would  confine  her  to  her  room  three  days  out  of  six.  As,  cf 
course,  all  family  arrangements  fell  into  the  hands  of  servant^ 
St.  Clare  found  his  menage  anything  but  comfortable.  Hiu 
only  daughter  was  exceedingly  delicate,  and  he  feared  that,  with 
no  one  to  look  after  her  and  attend  to  her,  her  health  and  life 
might  yet  fall  a  sacrifice  to  her  mother's  inefficiency.  He  had 
taken  her  with  him  on  a  tour  to  Vermont,  and  had  persuaded 
his  cousin,  Miss  Ophelia  St.  Clare,  to  return  with  him  to  hia 
southern  residence  ;  and  they  are  now  returning  on  this  boat, 
where  we  have  introduced  them  to  our  readers. 

And  now,  while  the  distant  domes  and  spires  of  New  Orleans 
rise  to  our  view,  there  is  yet  time  for  an  introduction  to  Miss 
Ophelia. 

Whoever  has  travelled  in  the  New  England  States  will  re 
member,  in  some  cool  village,  the  large  farm-house,  with  its 
clean-swept  grassy  yard,  shaded  by  the  dense  and  massive  foli 
age  of  the  sugar-maple ;  and  remember  the  air  of  order  and 
stillness,  of  perpetuity  and  unchanging  repose,  that  seemed  to 
breathe  over  the  whole  place.  Notbing  lost,  or  out  of  order ; 
not  a  picket  loose  in  the  fence,  not  a  particle  of  litter  in  the 
turfy  yard,  with  its  clumps  of  lilac-bushes  growing  up  under 
the  windows.  Within,  he  will  remember  wide,  clean  rooms, 
where  nothing  ever  seems  to  be  doing  or  going  to  be  done, 
where  everything  is  once  and  forever  rigidly  in  place,  and  where 
all  household  arrangements  move  with  the  punctual  exactness 
of  the  old  clock  in  the  corner.  In  the  family  "  keeping-room," 
as  it  is  termed,  he  will  remember  the  staid,  respectable  old  book 
case,  with  its  glass  doors,  where  Rollin's  History,  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost,  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  Scott's  Fam 
ily  Bible  stand  side  by  side  in  decorous  order,  with  multitudes 
of  other  books,  equally  solemn  and  respectable.  There  are  no 
servants  in  the  house,  but  the  lady  in  the  snowy  cap,  with  the 
spectacles,  who  sits  sewing  every  afternoon  among  her  daugh 
ters,  as  if  nothing  ever  had  been  done,  or  were  to  be  done,  — 
she  and  her  girls,  in  some  long-forgotten  fore  part  of  the  day, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY. 

«  did  up  the  \vork"  and  for  the  rest  of  the  time,  probably,  at 
all  hours  when  you  would  see  them,  it  is  "  done  up."  The  old 
kitchen  floor  never  seems  stained  or  spotted ;  the  tables,  the 
chairs,  and  the  various  cooking  utensils  never  seem  deranged 
or  disordered ;  though  three  and  sometimes  four  meals  a  day 
are  got  there,  though  the  family  washing  and  ironing  is  there 
performed,  and  though  pounds  of  butter  and  cheese  are  in  some 
silent  and  mysterious  manner  there  brought  into  existence. 

On  such  a  farm,  in  such  a  house  and  family,  Miss  Ophelia 
had  spent  a  quiet  existence  of  some  forty-five  years,  when  her 
cousin  invited  her  to  visit  his  southern  mansion.  The  eldest  of 
a  large  family,  she  was  still  considered  by  her  father  and  mother 
as  one  of  "  the  children,"  and  the  proposal  that  she  should  go 
to  Orleans  was  a  most  momentous  one  to  the  family  circle. 
The  old  gray-headed  father  took  down  Morse's  Atlas  out  of  the 
bookcase,  and  looked  out  the  exact  latitude  and  longitude  ;  an^ 
read  Flint's  Travels  in  the  South  and  West,  to  make  up  his 
own  mind  as  to  the  nature  of  the  country. 

The  good  mother  inquired,  anxiously,  "  if  Orleans  was  n't  an 
awful  wicked  place,"  saying,  "  that  it  seemed  to  her  most  equal 
to  going  to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  or  anywhere  among  the 
heathen." 

It  was  known  at  the  minister's,  and  at  the  doctor's,  and  at 
Miss  Peabody's  milliner  shop,  that  Ophelia  St.  Clare  was  "  talk 
ing  about "  going  away  down  to  Orleans  with  her  cousin  ;  and 
of  course  the  whole  village  could  do  no  less  than  help  this  very 
important  process  of  talking  about  the  matter.  The  minister, 
who  inclined  strongly  to  abolitionist  views,  was  quite  doubtful 
whether  such  a  step  might  not  tend  somewhat  to  encourage  the 
southerners  in  holding  on  to  their  slaves  ;  while  the  doctor, 
who  was  a  stanch  colonizationist,  inclined  to  the  opinion  that 
Miss  Ophelia  ought  to  go,  to  show  the  Orleans  people  that  we 
don't  think  hardly  of  them,  after  all.  He  was  of  opinion,  in 
fact,  that  southern  people  needed  encouraging.  When,  how 
ever,  the  fact  that  she  had  resolved  to  go  was  fully  before  the 
public  mind,  she  was  solemnly  invited  out  to  tea  by  all  her 
friends  and  neighbors  for  the  space  of  a  fortnight,  and  her 
prospects  and  plans  duly  canvassed  and  inquired  into.  Miss 
Moseley,  who  came  into  the  house  to  help  to  do  the 


176  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

ing,  acquired  daily  accessions  of  importance  from  the  develop 
ments  with  regard  to  Miss  Ophelia's  wardrobe  which  she  had 
been  enabled  to  make.  It  was  credibly  ascertained  that  Squire 
Sinclare,  as  his  name  was  commonly  contracted  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  had  counted  out  fifty  dollars,  and  given  them  to  Miss 
Ophelia,  and  told  her  to  buy  any  clothes  she  thought  best ;  and 
that  two  new  silk  dresses,  and  a  bonnet,  had  been  sent  for  from 
Boston.  As  to  the  propriety  of  this  extraordinary  outlay,  the 
public  mind  wag  divided,  —  some  affirming  that  it  was  well 
enough,  all  things  considered,  for  once  in  one's  life,  and  others 
stoutly  affirming  that  the  money  had  better  have  been  sent  to 
the  missionaries  ;  but  all  parties  agreed  that  there  had  been  no 
such  parasol  seen  in  those  parts  as  had  been  sent  on  from  New 
York,  and  that  she  had  one  silk  dress  that  might  fairly  be 
trusted  to  stand  alone,  whatever  might  be  said  of  its  mistress. 
There  were  credible  rumors,  also,  of  a  hemstitched  pocket-hand 
kerchief  ;  and  report  even  w«Lt  so  far  as  to  state  that  Miss 
Ophelia  had  one  pocket-handkerchief  with  lace  all  around  it,  — 
it  was  even  added  that  it  was  worked  in  the  corners  ;  but  this 
latter  point  was  never  satisfactorily  ascertained,  and  remains,  in 
fact,  unsettled  to  this  day. 

Miss  Ophelia,  as  you  now  behold  her,  stands  before  you,  in 
a  very  shining  brown  linen  travelling-dress,  tall,  square-formed, 
and  angular.  Her  face  was  thin,  and  rather  sharp  in  its  out 
lines  ;  the  lips  compressed,  like  those  of  a  person  who  is  in  the 
habit  of  making  up  her  mind  definitely  on  all  subjects  ;  while 
the  keen,  dark  eyes  had  a  peculiarly  searching,  advised  move 
ment,  and  travelled  over  everything,  as  if  they  were  looking  for 
something  to  take  care  of. 

All  her  movements  were  sharp,  decided,  and  energetic ;  and, 
though  she  was  never  much  of  a  talker,  her  words  were  remark 
ably  direct,  and  to  the  purpose,  when  she  did  speak. 

In  her  habits,  she  was  a  living  impersonation  of  order,  method, 
and  exactness.  In  punctuality,  she  wa*  as  inevitable  as  a  clock, 
and  as  inexorable  as  a  railroad  engine";  and  she  held  in  most 
decided  contempt  and  abomination  anything  of  a  contrary  char 
acter. 

The  great  sin  of  sins,  in  her  eyes,  —  the  sum  of  all  evils,  — 
was  expressed  by  one  very  common  and  important  word  in  he* 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  177 

vocabulary,  —  "  shiftlessness."  Her  finale  and  ultimatum  of 
contempt  consisted  in  a  very  emphatic  pronunciation  of  the 
word  "  shiftless ;  "  and  by  this  she  characterized  all  modes  of 
procedure  which  had  not  a  direct  and  inevitable  relation  to  ac 
complishment  of  some  purpose  then  definitely  had  in  mind. 
People  who  did  nothing,  or  who  did  not  know  exactly  what  they 
were  going  to  do,  or  who  did  not  take  the  most  direct  way  to 
accomplish  what  they  set  their  hands  to,  were  objects  of  her 
entire  contempt,  —  a  contempt  shown  less  frequently  by  any 
thing  she  said,  than  by  a  kind  of  stony  grimness,  as  if  she 
scorned  to  say  anything  about  the  matter. 

As  to  mental  cultivation,  —  she  had  a  clear,  strong,  active 
mind,  was  well  and  thoroughly  read  in  history  and  the  older 
English  classics,  and  thought  with  great  strength  within  certain 
narrow  limits.  Her  theological  tenets  were  all  made  up,  la 
belled  in  most  positive  and  distinct  forms,  and  put  by,  like  the 
bundles  in  her  patch  trunk  ;  there  were  just  so  many  of  them, 
and  there  were  never  to  be  any  more.  So,  also,  were  her  ideas 
with  regard  to  most  matters  of  practical  life,  —  such  as  house 
keeping  in  all  its  branches,  and  the  various  political  relations  of 
her  native  village.  And,  underlying  all,  deeper  than  anything 
else,  higher  and  broader,  lay  the  strongest  principle  of  her 
being,  —  conscientiousness.  Nowhere  is  conscience  so  dominant 
and  all-absorbing  as  with  New  England  women.  It  is  the 
granite  formation,  which  lies  deepest,  and  rises  out,  even  to  the 
tops  of  the  highest  mountains. 

Miss  Ophelia  was  the  absolute  bond-slave  of  the  "  ought." 
Once  make  her  certain  that  the  "  path  of  duty,"  as  she  com 
monly  phrased  it,  lay  in  any  given  direction,  and  fire  and  water 
could  not  keep  her  from  it.  She  would  walk  straight  down 
into  a  well,  or  up  to  a  loaded  cannon's  mouth,  if  she  were  only 
quite  sure  that  there  the  path  lay.  Her  standard  of  right  was 
so  high,  so  all-embracing,  so  minute,  and  making  so  few  con 
cessions  to  human  frailty,  that,  though  she  strove  with  heroic 
ardor  to  reach  it,  she  n^  t  er  actually  did  so,  and  of  course  was 
burdened  with  a  constant  and  often  harassing  sense  of  defi- 
e iency ;  —  this  gave  a  severe  and  somewhat  gloomy  cast  to  her 
religious  character. 

But,  how  in  the  world  can  Miss  Ophelia  get  along  with  Au- 
12 


178  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OB, 

gustine  St.  Clare,  —  gay,  easy,  unpunctual,  unpractical,  scep 
tical,  —  in  short,  walking  with  impudent  and  nonchalant  free 
dom  over  every  one  of  her  most  cherished  habits  and  opinions  ? 

To  tell  the  truth,  then,  Miss  Ophelia  loved  him.  When  a 
hoy,  it  had  been  hers  to  teach  him  his  liatechism,  mend  his 
clothes,  comb  his  hair,  and  bring  him  up  generally  in  the  way 
he  should  go  ;  and  her  heart  having  a  warm  side  to  it,  Augus 
tine  had,  as  he  usually  did  with  most  people,  monopolized  a 
large  share  of  it  for  himself,  and  therefore  it  was  that  he  suc 
ceeded  very  easily  in  persuading  her  that  the  "  path  of  duty  " 
lay  in  the  direction  of  New  Orleans,  and  that  she  must  go  with 
him  to  take  care  of  Eva,  and  keep  everything  from  going  to 
wreck  and  ruin  during  the  frequent  illnesses  of  his  wife.  The 
idea  of  a  house  without  anybody  to  take  care  of  it  went  to  her 
heart ;  then  she  loved  the  lovely  little  girl,  as  few  could  help 
doing ;  and  though  she  regarded  Augustine  as  very  much  of 
a  heathen,  yet  she  loved  him,  laughed  at  his  jokes,  and  for 
bore  with  his  failings,  to  an  extent  which  those  who  knew  him 
thought  perfectly  incredible.  But  what  more  or  other  is  to  be 
known  of  Miss  Ophelia  our  reader  must  discover  by  a  personal 
acquaintance. 

There  she  is,  sitting  now  in  her  state-room,  surrounded  by  a 
mixed  multitude  of  little  and  big  carpet-bags,  boxes,  baskets, 
each  containing  some  separate  responsibility  which  she  is  tying, 
binding  up,  packing,  or  fastening,  with  a  face  of  great  earnest 
ness. 

"  Now,  Eva,  have  you  kept  count  of  your  things  ?  Of  course 
you  have  n't,  —  children  never  do  :  there  's  the  spotted  carpet 
bag  and  the  little  blue  bandbox  with  your  best  bonnet,  — 
that 's  two  ;  then  the  India-rubber  satchel  is  three  ;  and  my 
tape  and  needle  box  is  four  ;  and  my  bandbox,  five  ;  and  my 
collar-box,  six;  and  that  little  hair  trunk,  seven.  What  have 
you  done  with  your  sunshade  ?  Give  it  to  me,  and  let  me  put 
a  paper  round  it,  and  tie  it  to  my  umbrella  with  my  shade  ;  — 
there,  now." 

"  Why,  aunty,  we  are  only  going  up  home ;  —  what  is  the 
use  ?  " 

"  To  keep  it  nice,  child  ;  people  must  take  care  of  their 
things,  if  they  ever  mean  to  have  anything ;  and  now,  Eva,  is 
your  thimble  put  up  ?  " 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  179 

•'  Really,  aunty,  I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  never  mind ;  I  '11  look  your  box  over,  —  thimble, 
wax,  two  spools,  scissors,  knife,  tape-needle  ;  all  right,  —  put  it 
in  here.  What  did  you  ever  do,  child,  when  you  were  coming 
on  with  only  your  papa  ?  I  should  have  thought  you  'd  a  lost 
everything  you  had." 

"  Well,  aunty,  I  did  lose  a  great  many ;  and  then,  when  we 
stopped  anywhere,  papa  would  buy  some  more  of  whatever  it 
was." 

"  Mercy  on  us,  child,  —  what  a  way !  " 

"  It  was  a  very  easy  way,  aunty,"  said  Eva. 

"  It 's  a  dreadful  shiftless  one,"  said  aunty. 

"  Why,  aunty,  what  '11  you  do  now  ?  "  said  Eva  ;  "  that  trunk 
is  too  full  to  be  shut  down." 

"  It  must  shut  down,"  said  aunty,  with  the  air  of  a  general,  as 
she  squeezed  the  things  in,  and  sprung  upon  the  lid ;  —  still  a 
little  gap  remained  about  the  mouth  of  the  trunk. 

"  Get  up  here,  Eva ! "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  courageously ; 
"  what  has  been  done  can  be  done  again.  This  trunk  has  (jot  to 
be  shut  and  locked,  —  there  are  no  two  ways  about  it." 

And  the  trunk,  intimidated,  doubtless,  by  this  resolute  state 
ment,  gave  in.  The  hasp  snapped  sharply  in  its  hole,  and  Miss 
Ophelia  turned  the  key,  and  pocketed  it  in  triumph. 

"  Now  we  're  ready.  Where  's  your  papa  ?  I  think  it  tima 
this  baggage  was  set  out.  Do  look  out,  Eva,  and  see  if  you  sea 
your  papa." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he 's  down  the  other  end  of  the  gentlemen's  cabin, 
eating  an  orange." 

"  He  can't  know  how  near  we  are  coming,"  said  aunty  ;  "  had 
n't  you  better  run  and  speak  to  him  ?  " 

"  Papa  never  is  in  a  hurry  about  anything,"  said  Eva,  "  and 
we  have  n't  come  to  the  landing.  Do  step  on  the  guards,  aunty. 
Look  !  there  's  our  house,  up  that  street !  " 

The  boat  now  began,  with  heavy  groans,  like  some  vast,  tired 
monster,  to  prepare  to  push  up  among  the  multiplied  steamers 
at  the  levee.  Eva  joyously  pointed  out  the  various  spires, 
domes,  and  waymarks,  by  which  she  recognized  her  native  city. 

"  Yes,  yes,  dear  ;  very  fine,"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  But  mercy 
on  us !  the  boat  has  stopped  !  where  is  your  father  ?  " 


180  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

And  now  ensued  the  usual  turmoil  of  landing,  —  waiters 
running  twenty  ways  at  once,  —  men  tugging  trunks,  carpet 
bags,  boxes,  —  women  anxiously  calling  to  their  children,  and 
everybody  crowding  in  a  dense  mass  to  the  plank  towards  the 
landing. 

Miss  Ophelia  seated  herself  resolutely  on  the  lately  van 
quished  trunk,  and  marshalling  all  her  goods  and  chattels  in  fine 
military  order,  seemed  resolved  to  defend  them  to  the  last. 

u  Shall  I  take  your  trunk,  ma'am  ?  "  "  Shall  I  take  your 
baggage  ?  "  "  Let  me  'tend  to  your  baggage,  Missis  ?  "  Shan't 
I  carry  out  these  yer,  Missis  ?  "  rained  down  upon  her  un 
heeded.  She  sat  with  grim  determination,  upright  as  a  darning- 
needle  stuck  in  a  board,  holding  on  to  her  bundle  of  umbrella 
and  parasols,  and  replying  with  a  determination  that  was  enough 
to  strike  dismay  even  into  a  hackman,  wondering  to  Eva,  in 
each  interval,  "  what  upon  earth  her  papa. could  be  thinking  of ; 
he  could  n't  have  fallen  over,  now,  —  but  something  must  have 
happened  ;  "  —  and  just  as  she  had  begun  to  work  herself  into 
a  real  distress,  he  came  up,  with  his  usually  careless  motion,  and 
giving  Eva  a  quarter  of  the  orange  he  was  eating,  said,  — 

"  Well,  Cousin  Vermont,  I  suppose  you  are  all  ready." 

"  I  've  been  ready,  waiting,  nearly  an  hour,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia  ;  "  I  began  to  be  really  concerned  about  you." 

"  That 's  a  clever  fellow,  now,"  said  he.  "  Well,  the  carriage 
is  waiting,  and  the  crowd  are  now  off,  so  that  one  can  walk  out 
in  a  decent  and  Christian  manner,  and  not  be  pushed  and  shoved. 
Here,"  he  added  to  a  driver  who  stood  behind  him,  "  take  these 
things." 

"  I  '11  go  and  see  to  his  putting  them  in,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Oh,  pshaw,  cousin,  what 's  the  use  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  I  '11  carry  this,  and  this,  and  this,"  said 
Miss  Ophelia,  singling  out  three  boxes  and  a  small  carpet-bag. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Vermont,  positively,  you  must  n't  come  the 
Green  Mountains  over  us  that  way.  You  must  adopt  at  least  a 
piece  of  a  southern  principle,  and  not  walk  out  under  all  that 
load.  They  '11  take  you  for  a  waiting-maid ;  give  them  to  this 
fellow ;  he  '11  put  them  down  as  if  they  were  eggs,  now." 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  despairingly,  as  her  cousin  took  all  her 
treasures  from  her,  and  rejoiced  to  find  herself  once  more  in  the 
carriage  with  them,  in  a  state  of  preservation. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  181 

"  Where  's  Tom  ?  "  said  Eva. 

"  Oh,  he  's  on  the  outside,  pussy.  I  'm  going  to  take  Tom  up 
to  mother  for  a  peace-offering,  to  make  up  for  that  drunken  fel 
low  that  upset  the  carriage." 

"  Oh,  Tom  will  make  a  splendid  driver,  I  know,"  said  Eva ; 
"  he  '11  never  get  drunk." 

The  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  an  ancient  mansion,  built  in 
that  odd  mixture  of  Spanish  and  French  style  of  which  there 
are  specimens  in  some  parts  of  New  Orleans.  It  was  built  in  the 
Moorish  fashion,  —  a  square  building  inclosing  a  courtyard,  into 
which  the  carriage  drove  through  an  arched  gateway.  The 
court,  in  the  inside,  had  evidently  been  arranged  to  gratify  a 
picturesque  and  voluptuous  ideality.  Wide  galleries  ran  all 
around  the  four  sides,  whose  Moorish  arches,  slender  pillars,  and 
arabesque  ornaments,  carried  the  mind  back,  as  in  a  dream,  to 
the  reign  of  oriental  romance  in  Spain.  In  the  middle  of  the 
court,  a  fountain  threw  high  its  silvery  water,  falling  in  a  never- 
ceasing  spray  into  a  marble  basin,  fringed  with  a  deep  border  of 
fragrant  violets.  The  water  in  the  fountain,  pellucid  as  crystal, 
was  alive  with  myriads  of  gold  and  silver  fishes,  twinkling  and 
darting  through  it  like  so  many  living  jewels.  Around  the 
fountain  ran  a  walk,  paved  with  a  mosaic  of  pebbles,  laid  in 
various  fanciful  patterns ;  and  this,  again,  was  surrounded  by 
turf,  smooth  as  green  velvet,  while  a  carriage-drive  inclosed  the 
whole.  Two  large  orange-trees,  now  fragrant  with  blossoms, 
threw  a  delicious  shade  ;  and,  ranged  in  a  circle  round  upon  the 
turf,  were  marble  vases  of  arabesque  sculpture,  containing  the 
choicest  flowering  plants  of  the  tropics.  Huge  pomegranate- 
trees,  with  their  glossy  leaves  and  flame-colored  flowers,  dark- 
leaved  Arabian  jessamines,  with  their  silvery  stars,  geraniums, 
luxuriant  roses  bending  beneath  their  heavy  abundance  of  flowers, 
golden  jessamines,  lemon-scented  verbenas,  all  united  their  bloom 
and  fragrance,  while  here  and  there  a  mystic  old  aloe,  with  its 
strange,  massive  leaves,  sat  looking  like  some  hoary  old  enchan 
ter,  sitting  in  weird  grandeur  among  the  more  perishable  bloom 
and  fragrance  around  it. 

The  galleries  that  surrounded  the  court  were  festooned  with  a 
curtain  of  some  kind  of  Moorish  stuff,  and  could  be  drawn  down 
at  pleasure,  to  exclude  the  beams  of  the  sun.  On  the  whole,  the 
appearance  of  the  place  was  luxurious  and  romantic. 


182  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

As  the  carriage  drove  in,  Eva  seemed  like  a  bird  ready  t« 
burst  from  a  cage,  with  the  wild  eagerness  of  her  delight. 

"  Oh,  is  n't  it  beautiful,  lovely  !  my  own  dear,  darling  home  !  " 
she  said  to  Miss  Ophelia.  "  Is  n't  it  beautiful  ?  " 

"  'T  is  a  pretty  place,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  as  she  alighted ; 
ls  though  it  looks  rather  old  and  heathenish  to  me." 

Tom  got  down  from  the  carriage,  and  looked  about  with  an 
air  of  calm,  still  enjoyment.  The  negro,  it  must  be  remembered, 
is  an  exotic  of  the  most  gorgeous  and  superb  countries  of  the 
world,  and  he  has,  deep  in  his  heart,  a  passion  for  all  that  is 
splendid,  rich,  and  fanciful;  a  passion  which,  rudely  indulged  by 
an  untrained  taste,  draws  on  them  the  ridicule  of  the  colder  and 
more  correct  white  race. 

St.  Clare,  who  was  in  his  heart  a  poetical  voluptuary,  smiled 
as  Miss  Ophelia  made  her  remark  on  his  premises,  and,  turning 
to  Tom,  who  was  standing  looking  round,  his  beaming  black  face 
perfectly  radiant  with  admiration,  he  said,  — 

u  Tom,  my  boy,  this  seems  to  suit  you." 

"  Yes,  Mas'r,  it  looks  about  the  right  thing,"  said  Tom. 

All  this  passed  in  a  moment,  while  trunks  were  being  hustled 
off,  hackman  paid,  and  while  a  crowd,  of  all  ages  and  sizes  — 
men,  women,  and  children  —  came  running  through  the  gal 
leries,  both  above  and  below,  to  see  Mas'r  come  in.  Foremost 
among  them  was  a  highly  dressed  young  mulatto  man,  evidently 
a  very  distingue  personage,  attired  in  the  ultra  extreme  of  the 
mode,  and  gracefully  waving  a  scented  cambric  handkerchief 
in  his  hand. 

This  personage  had  been  exerting  himself,  with  great  alacrity, 
in  driving  all  the  flock  of  domestics  to  the  other  end  of  the 
veranda. 

"  Back !  all  of  you.  I  am  ashamed  of  you,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  authority.  "  Would  you  intrude  on  Master's  domestic  rela 
tions,  in  the  first  hour  of  his  return  ?  " 

All  looked  abashed  at  this  elegant  speech,  delivered  with 
quite  an  air,  and  stood  huddled  together  at  a  respectful  distance, 
except  two  stout  porters,  who  came  up  and  began  conveying 
away  the  baggage. 

Owing  to  Mr.  Adolph's  systematic  arrangements,  when  St 
Clare  turned  round  from  paying  the  hackman,  there  was  nobodj 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  183 

in  view  but  Mr.  Adolph  himself,  conspicuous  in  satin  vest,  gold 
guard-chain,  and  white  pants,  and  bowing  with  inexpressible 
grace  and  suavity. 

"  Ah,  Adolph,  is  it  you  ?  "  said  his  master,  offering  his  hand 
to  him ;  "  how  are  you,  boy  ?  "  while  Adolph  poured  forth,  with 
great  fluency,  an  extemporary  speech,  which  he  had  been  pre 
paring,  with  great  care,  for  a  fortnight  before. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  St.  Clare,  passing  on,  with  his  usual  air  of 
negligent  drollery,  "  that 's  very  well  got  up,  Adolph.  See  that 
the  baggage  is  well  bestowed.  I  '11  come  to  the  people  in  a 
minute  ;  "  and,  so  saying,  he  led  Miss  Ophelia  to  a  large  parlor 
that  opened  on  the  veranda. 

While  this  had  been  passing,  Eva  had  flown  like  a  bird, 
through  the  porch  and  parlor,  to  a  little  boudoir  opening  likewise 
on  the  veranda. 

A  tall,  dark-eyed,  sallow  woman  half  rose  from  a  couch  on 
which  she  was  reclining. 

"  Mamma !  "  said  Eva,  in  a  sort  of  rapture,  throwing  herself 
OK  her  neck,  and  embracing  her  over  and  over  again. 

"  That  '11  do,  —  take  care,  child,  —  don't,  you  make  my  head 
ache,"  said  the  mother,  after  she  had  languidly  kissed  her. 

St.  Clare  came  in,  embraced  his  wife  in  true,  orthodox,  hus 
bandly  fashion,  and  then  presented  to  her  his  cousin.  Marie 
lifted  her  large  eyes  on  her  cousin  with  an  air  of  some  curiosity, 
and  received  her  with  languid  politeness.  A  crowd  of  servants 
now  pressed  to  the  entry  door,  and  among  them  a  middle-aged 
mulatto  woman,  of  very  respectable  appearance,  stood  foremost, 
in  a  tremor  of  expectation  and  joy,  at  the  door. 

"  Oh,  there 's  Mammy !  "  said  Eva,  as  she  flew  across  the 
room ;  and,  throwing  herself  into  her  arms,  she  kissed  her  re 
peatedly. 

This  woman  did  not  tell  her  that  she  made  her  head  ache, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  she  hugged  her,  and  laughed,  and  cried, 
till  her  sanity  was  a  thing  to  be  doubted  of ;  and  when  released 
from  her,  Eva  flew  from  one  to  another,  shaking  hands  and 
kissing,  in  a  way  that  Miss  Ophelia  afterwards  declared  fairly- 
turned  her  stomach. 

"  Well !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  you  southern  children  can  do 
something  that  /could  n't  " 


184  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OB, 

u  What,  now,  pray  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  be  kind  to  everybody,  and  I  would  n  t  havt 
anything  hurt ;  but  as  to  kissing  "  — 

"  Niggers,"  said  St.  Clare,  u  that  you  're  not  up  to,  —  hey  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that 's  it     How  can  she  ?  " 

St.  Clare  laughed,  as  he  went  into  the  passage.  "  Halloa, 
here,  what 's  to  pay  out  here  ?  Here,  you  all,  —  Mammy, 
Jimmy,  Polly,  Sukey,  —  glad  to  see  Mas'r?  "  he  said,  as  he  went 
shaking  hands  from  one  to  another.  "  Look  out  for  the  babies  !  " 
he  added,  as  he  stumbled  over  a  sooty  little  urchin  who  was 
crawling  upon  all  fours.  "  If  I  step  upon  anybody,  let  'em 
mention  it." 

There  was  an  abundance  of  laughing  and  blessing  Mas'r,  as 
St.  Clare  distributed  small  pieces  of  change  among  them. 

"  Come,  now,  take  yourselves  off,  like  good  boys  and  girls," 
he  said  ;  and  the  whole  assemblage,  dark  and  light,  disappeared 
through  a  door  into  a  large  veranda,  followed  by  Eva,  who  car 
ried  a  large  satchel,  which  she  had  been  filling  with  apples,  nuts, 
candy,  ribbons,  laces,  and  toys  of  every  description,  during  her 
whole  homeward  journey. 

As  St.  Clare  turned  to  go  back,  his  eye  fell  upon  Tom,  who 
was  standing  uneasily,  shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  while 
Adolph  stood  negligently  leaning  against  the  banisters,  examin 
ing  Tom  through  an  opera-glass,  with  an  air  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  any  dandy  living. 

"  Puh  !»•  you  puppy,"  said  his  master,  striking  down  the 
opera-glass  ;  "is  that  the  way  you  treat  your  company  ?  Seems 
to  me,  Dolph,"  he  added,  laying  his  finger  on  the  elegant  fig 
ured  satin  vest  that  Adolph  was  sporting,  "  seems  to  me  that 's 
my  vest." 

"  Oh,  Master,  this  vest  all  stained  with  wine  ;  of  course,  a 
gentleman  in  Master's  standing  never  wears  a  vest  like  this. 
I  understood  I  was  to  take  it.  It  does  for  a  poor  nigger-fellow, 
like  me." 

And  Adolph  tossed  his  head,  and  passed  his  fingers  through 
his  scented  hair,  with  a  grace. 

"  So,  that 's  it,  is  it  ?  "  said  St.  Clare,  carelessly.  "  Well, 
here,  I  'm  going  to  show  this  Tom  to  his  mistress,  and  then  you 
take  him  to  the  kitchen  ;  and  mind  you  don't  put  on  any  of  your 
airs  to  him.  He  's  worth  two  such  puppies  as  you." 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  185 

"  Master  always  will  have  his  joke,"  said  Adolph,  laughing. 
u  I  'm  delighted  to  see  Master  in  such  spirits." 

"  Here,  Tom,"  said  St.  Clare,  beckoning. 

Tom  entered  the  room.  He  looked  wistfully  on  the  velvet 
carpets,  and  the  before  unimagined  splendors  of  mirrors,  pic 
tures,  statues,  and  curtains,  and,  like  the  Queen  of  Sheba  be 
fore  Solomon,  there  was  no  more  spirit  in  him.  He  looked 
afraid  even  to  set  his  feet  down. 

"  See  here,  Marie,"  said  St.  Clare  to  his  wife,  "  I  've 
bought  you  a  coachman,  at  last,  to  order.  I  tell  you,  he  's  a 
regular  hearse  for  blackness  and  sobriety,  and  will  drive  you 
like  a  funeral,  if  you  want.  Open  your  eyes,  now,  and  look 
at  him.  Now,  don't  say  I  never  think  about  you  when  I  'm 
gone." 

Marie  opened  her  eyes,  and  fixed  them  on  Tom,  without 
rising. 

"  I  know  he  '11  get  drunk,"  she  said. 

"  No,  he  's  warranted  a  pious  and  sober  article." 

"Well,  I  hope  he  may  turn  out  well,"  said  the  lady;  "  it  '* 
more  than  I  expect,  though." 

"  Dolph,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  show  Tom  down  stairs  ;  and,  mind 
yourself,"  he  added  ;  "  remember  what  I  told  you." 

Adolph  tripped  gracefully  forward,  and  Tom,  with  lumber 
ing  tread,  went  after. 

"  He  's  a  perfect  behemoth  !  "  said  Marie. 

"  Come,  now,  Marie,"  said  St.  Clare,  seating  himself  on  a 
stool  beside  her  sofa,  "  be  gracious,  and  say  something  pretty  to 
a  fellow." 

"  You  've  been  gone  a  fortnight  beyond  the  time,"  said  the 
lady,  pouting. 

"  Well,  you  know  I  wrote  you  the  reason." 

"  Such  a  short,  cold  letter  !  "  said  the  lady. 

"  Dear  me !  the  mail  was  just  going,  and  it  had  to  be  that  or 
nothing." 

"  That 's  just  the  way,  always,"  said  the  lady ;  "  always 
something  to  make  your  journeys  long,  and  letters  short." 

"  See  here,  now,"  he  added,  drawing  an  elegant  velvet  case 
out  of  his  pocket,  and  opening  it,  "  here  's  a  present  I  got  for 
you  in  New  York." 


186  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

It  was  a  daguerreotype,  clear  and  soft  as  an  engraving,  repre 
senting  Eva  and  her  father  sitting  hand  in  hand. 

Marie  looked  at  it  with  a  dissatisfied  air. 

"  What  made  you  sit  in  such  an  awkward  position  ? "  she 
said. 

"  Well,  the  position  may  be  a  matter  of  opinion ;  but  what  do 
you  think  of  the  likeness  ?  " 

"  If  you  don't  think  anything  of  my  opinion  in  one  case,  I 
suppose  you  would  n't  in  another,"  said  the  lady,  shutting  the 
daguerreotype. 

"  Hang  the  woman  !  "  said  St.  Clare,  mentally ;  but  aloud  he 
added,  "  Come,  now,  Marie,  what  do  you  think  of  the  likeness  ? 
Don't  be  nonsensical,  now." 

"  It 's  very  inconsiderate  of  you,  St.  Clare,"  said  the  lady, 
"  to  insist  on  my  talking  and  looking  at  things.  You  know  I  've 
been  lying  all  day  with  the  sick-headache  ;  and  there 's  been 
such  a  tumult  made  ever  since  you  came,  I  'm  half  dead." 

"  You  're  subject  to  the  sick-headache,  ma'am  ?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  suddenly  rising  from  the  depths  of  the  large  arm-chair, 
where  she  had  sat  quietly,  taking  an  inventory  of  the  furniture, 
and  calculating  its  expense. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  a  perfect  martyr  to  it,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Juniper-berry  tea  is  good  for  sick-headache,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia ;  u  at  least,  Auguste,  Deacon  Abraham  Perry's  wife, 
used  to  say  so ;  and  she  was  a  great  nurse." 

"  I  '11  have  the  first  juniper-berries  that  get  ripe  in  our  garden 
by  the  lake  brought  in  for  that  especial  purpose,"  said  St.  Clare, 
gravely  pulling  the  bell  as  he  did  so  ;  "  meanwhile,  cousin,  you 
must  be  wanting  to  retire  to  your  apartment,  and  refresh  your 
self  a  little,  after  your  journey.  Dolph,"  he  added,  "  tell 
Mammy  to  come  here."  The  decent  mulatto  woman  whom  Era 
had  caressed  so  rapturously  soon  entered  ;  she  was  dressed 
neatly,  with  a  high  red  and  yellow  turban  on  her  head,  the 
recent  gift  of  Eva,  and  which  the  child  had  been  arranging  on 
her  head.  "  Mammy,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  I  put  this  lady  under 
your  care ;  she  is  tired,  and  wants  rest ;  take  her  to  her  cham 
ber,  and  be  sure  she  is  made  comfortable ; "  and  Miss  Ophelia 
ditappeared  in  the  rear  of  Mammy. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  187 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

TOM'S   MISTRESS   AND   HER    OPINIONS. 

"AND  now,  Marie,"  said  Si.  Clare,  "your  golden  days  are 
dawning.  Here  is  our  practical,  business-iike  New  England 
cousin,  who  will  take  the  whole  budget  of  cares  off  your  shoul 
ders,  and  give  you  time  to  refresh  yourself,  and  grow  young  and 
handsome.  The  ceremony  of  delivering  the  keys  had  better 
come  off  forthwith." 

This  remark  was  made  at  the  breakfast-table,  a  few  mornings 
after  Miss  Ophelia  had  arrived. 

"  I  'm  sure  she  's  welcome,"  said  Marie,  leaning  her  head 
languidly  on  her  hand.  "  I  think  she  '11  find  one  thing,  if  she 
does,  and  that  is,  that  it 's  we,  mistresses,  that  are  the  slaves, 
down  here." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  she  will  discover  that,  and  a  world  of  whole 
some  truths  besides,  no  doubt,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Talk  about  our  keeping  slaves,  as  if  we  did  it  for  our  con 
venience"  said  Marie.  "  I  'm  sure,  if  we  consulted  that,  we 
might  let  them  all  go  at  once." 

Evangeline  fixed  her  large,  serious  eyes  on  her  mother's  face, 
with  an  earnest  and  perplexed  expression,  and  said,  simply, 
"  What  do  you  keep  them  for,  mamma  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure,  except  for  a  plague  ;  they  are  the 
plague  of  my  life.  I  believe  that  more  of  my  ill  health  is  caused 
by  them  than  by  any  one  thing ;  and  ours,  I  know,  are  the  very 
worst  that  ever  anybody  was  plagued  with." 

"  Oh,  come,  Marie,  you  Ve  got  the  blues,  this  morning,"  said 
St.  Clare.  "  You  know  't  is  n't  so.  There  's  Mammy,  the  best 
creature  living,  —  what  could  you  do  without  her  ?  " 

"  Mammy  is  the  best  I  ever  knew,"  said  Marie  ;  "  and  yet 
Mammy,  now,  is  selfish,  —  dreadfully  selfish  ;  it 's  the  fault  of 
the  whole  race." 


188  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;   OK, 

"  Selfishness  is  a  dreadful  fault,"  said  St.  Clare,  gravely. 

"  Well,  now,  there  's  Mammy,"  said  Marie ;  "  I  think  it 's 
selfish  of  her  to  sleep  so  sound  nights  ;  she  knows  I  need  little 
attentions  almost  every  hour,  when  my  worst  turns  are  on,  and 
yet  she  's  so  hard  to  wake.  I  absolutely  am  worse  this  very 
morning,  for  the  efforts  I  had  to  make  to  wake  her  last  night." 

"  Has  n't  she  sat  up  with  you  a  good  many  nights,  lately, 
mamma  ?  "  said  Eva. 

"  How-  should  you  know  that  ?  "  said  Marie,  sharply ;  "  she  'a 
been  complaining,  I  suppose." 

"  She  did  n't  complain  ;  she  only  told  me  what  bad  nights 
you  'd  had,  —  so  many  in  succession." 

"  Why  don't  you  let  Jane  or  Rosa  take  her  place  a  night  or 
two,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  and  let  her  rest  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  propose  it  ?  "  said  Marie.  "  St.  Clare,  you 
really  are  inconsiderate.  So  nervous  as  I  am,  the  least  breath 
disturbs  me ;  and  a  strange  hand  about  me  would  drive  me 
absolutely  frantic.  If  Mammy  felt  the  interest  in  me  she  ought 
to,  she  'd  wake  easier,  —  of  course  she  would.  I  Ve  heard  of 
people  who  had  such  devoted  servants,  but  it  never  was  my 
luck  ;  "  and  Marie  sighed. 

Miss  Ophelia  had  listened  to  this  conversation  with  an  air  of 
shrewd,  observant  gravity ;  and  she  still  kept  her  lips  tightly 
compressed,  as  if  determined  fully  to  ascertain  her  longitude 
and  position  before  she  committed  herself. 

"  Now  Mammy  has  a  sort  of  goodness,"  said  Marie  ;  "  she  Js 
smooth  and  respectful,  but  she 's  selfish  at  heart.  Now,  she 
never  will  be  done  fidgeting  and  worrying  about  that  husband 
of  hers.  You  see,  when  I  was  married  and  came  to  live  here, 
of  course,  I  had  to  bring  her  with  me,  and  her  husband  my 
father  could  n't  spare.  He  was  a  blacksmith,  and,  of  course, 
very  necessary ;  and  I  thought  and  said,  at  the  time,  that 
Mammy  and  he  had  better  give  each  other  up,  as  it  was  n't 
likely  to  be  convenient  for  them  ever  to  live  together  again. 
I  wish,  now,  I  'd  insisted  on  it,  and  married  Mammy  to  some 
body  else  ;  but  I  was  foolish  and  indulgent,  and  did  n't  want  to 
insist.  I  told  Mammy,  at  the  time,  that  she  must  n't  ev  xpect 
to  see  him  more  than  once  or  twice  in  her  life  again,  f<  he  air 
of  father's  place  does  n't  agree  with  my  health,  and  J  n't  go 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  189 

there ;  and  I  advised  her  to  take  up  with  somebody  else ;  but 
no  —  she  would  n't.  Mammy  has  a  kind  of  obstinacy  about 
her,  in  spots,  that  everybody  don't  see  as  I  do." 

"  Has  she  children  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Yes  ;  she  has  two." 

"  I  suppose  she  feels  the  separation  from  them  ?  " 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  could  n't  bring  them.  They  were  little 
dirty  things,  —  I  could  n't  have  them  about ;  and,  besides,  they 
took  up  too  much  of  her  time  ;  but  I  believe  that  Mammy  has 
always  kept  up  a  sort  of  sulkiness  about  this.  She  won't  marry 
anybody  else  ;  and  I  do  believe,  now,  though  she  knows  how 
necessary  she  is  to  me,  and  how  feeble  my  health  is,  she  would 
go  back  to  her  husband  to-morrow,  if  she  only  could.  I  do, 
indeed,"  said  Marie  ;  "  they  are  just  so  selfish,  now,  the  best  of 
them." 

"  It  's  distressing  to  reflect  upon,"  said  St.  Clare,  dryly. 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  keenly  at  him,  and  saw  the  flush  of 
mortification  and  repressed  vexation,  and  the  sarcastic  curl  of 
the  lip,  as  he  spoke. 

"  Now,  Mammy  has  always  been  a  pet  with  rne,"  said  Marie. 
"  I  wish  some  of  your  northern  servants  could  look  at  her 
closets  of  dresses,  —  silks  and  muslins,  and  one  real  linen 
cambric,  she  has  hanging  there.  I  've  worked  sometimes 
whole  afternoons,  trimming  her  caps,  and  getting  her  ready  to 
go  to  a  party.  As  to  abuse,  she  don't  know  what  it  is.  She 
never  was  whipped  more  than  once  or  twice  in  her  whole  life. 
She  has  her  strong  coffee  or  her  tea  every  day,  with  white 
sugar  in  it.  It  rs  abominable,  to  be  sure ;  but  St.  Clare  will 
have  high  life  below-stairs,  and  they  every  one  of  them  live 
just  as  they  please.  The  fact  is,  our  servants  are  over-indulged. 
I  suppose  it  is  partly  our  fault  that  they  are  selfish,  and  act 
like  spoiled  children ;  but  I  've  talked  to  St.  Clare  till  I  am 
tired." 

"  And  I,  too,"  said  St.  Clare,  taking  up  the  morning  paper. 

Eva,  the  beautiful  Eva,  had  stood  listening  to  her  mother, 
with  that  expression  of  deep  and  mystic  earnestness  which  was 
peculiar  to  her.  She  walked  softly  round  to  her  mother's  chair, 
and  -  ••*  her  arms  around  her  neck. 

"        .1,  Eva,  what  now  ?  "  said  Marie. 


190  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  Mamma,  could  n't  I  take  care  of  you  one  night,  —  just  one  ? 
I  know  I  should  n't  make  you  nervous,  and  I  should  n't  sleep. 
I  often  lie  awake  nights,  thinking  "  — 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  child,  —  nonsense  !  "  said  Marie  ;  "  you  are 
such  a  strange  child  !  " 

"  But  may  I,  mamma  ?  I  think,"  she  said,  timidly,  "  that 
Mammy  is  n't  well.  She  told  me  her  head  ached  all  the  time, 
lately." 

"  Oh,  that 's  just  one  of  Mammy's  fidgets  !  Mammy  is  just 
like  all  the  rest  of  them,  —  makes  such  a  fuss  about  every  little 
headache  or  finger-ache ;  it  '11  never  do  to  encourage  it,  — 
never !  I  *m  principled  about  this  matter,"  said  she,  turning 
to  Miss  Ophelia ;  "  you  '11  find  the  necessity  of  it.  If  you 
encourage  servants  in  giving  way  to  every  little  disagreeable 
feeling,  and  complaining  of  every  little  ailment,  you  '11  have 
your  hands  full.  I  never  complain  myself,  —  nobody  knows 
what  I  endure.  I  feel  it  a  duty  to  bear  it  quietly,  and  I  do." 

Miss  Ophelia's  round  eyes  expressed  an  undisguised  amaze 
ment  at  this  peroration,  which  struck  St.  Clare  as  so  supremely 
ludicrous  that  he  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"  St.  Clare  always  laughs  when  I  make  the  least  allusion  to 
my  ill  health,"  said  Marie,  with  the  voice  of  a  suffering  martyr. 
"  I  only  hope  the  day  won't  come  when  he  '11  remember  it !  " 
and  Marie  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

Of  course,  there  was  rather  a  foolish  silence.  Finally,  St. 
Clare  got  up,  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said  he  had  an  engage 
ment  down  street.  Eva  tripped  away  after  him,  and  Miss 
Ophelia  and  Marie  remained  at  the  table  alone. 

"  Now,  that 's  just  like  St.  Clare  !  "  said  the  latter,  withdraw 
ing  her  handkerchief  with  somewhat  of  a  spirited  flourish,  when 
the  criminal  to  be  affected  by  it  was  no  longer  in  sight:  "  He 
never  realizes,  never  can,  never  will,  what  I  suffer,  and  have, 
for  years.  If  I  was  one  of  the  complaining  sort,  or  ever  mr.de 
any  fuss  about  my  ailments,  there  would  be  some  reason  for  it. 
Men  do  get  tired,  naturally,  of  a  complaining  wife.  But  I  've 
kept  things  to  myself,  and  borne,  and  borne,  till  St.  Clare  has 
got  in  the  way  of  thinking  I  can  bear  anything." 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  exactly  know  what  she  was  expected  t« 
answer  to  this. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  191 

While  she  was  thinking  what  to  say,  Marie  gradually  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and  smoothed  her  plumage  in  a  general  sort  of 
way,  as  a  dove  might  be  supposed  to  make  toilet  after  a  shower, 
and  began  a  housewifely  chat  with  Miss  Ophelia,  concerning 
cupboards,  closets,  linen-presses,  store-rooms,  and  other  matters, 
of  which  the  latter  was,  by  common  understanding,  to  assume 
the  direction,  —  giving  her  so  many  cautious  directions  and 
charges,  that  a  head  less  systematic  and  business-like  than  Miss 
Ophelia's  would  have  been  utterly  dizzied  and  confounded. 

"  And  now,"  said  Marie,  u  I  believe  I  've  told  you  every 
thing  ;  so  that,  when  my  next  sick  turn  comes  on,  you  '11  be  able 
to  go  forward  entirely,  without  consulting  me  ;  —  only  about 
Eva,  —  she  requires  watching." 

"  She  seems  to  be  a  good  child,  very,"  said  Miss  Ophelia  ;  "  I 
never  saw  a  better  child." 

"  Eva 's  peculiar,"  said  her  mother,  "  very.  There  are  things 
about  her  so  singular ;  she  is  n't  like  me,  now,  a  particle ; " 
and  Marie  sighed,  as  if  this  was  a  truly  melancholy  considera 
tion. 

Miss  Ophelia  in  her  own  heart  said,  "  I  hope  she  is  n't,"  but 
had  prudence  enough  to  keep  it  down. 

"  Eva  always  was  disposed  to  be  with  servants  ;  and  I  think 
that  well  enough  with  some  children.  Now,  I  always  played 
with  father's  little  negroes,  —  it  never  did  me  any  harm.  But 
Eva  somehow  always  seems  to  put  herself  on  an  equality  with 
every  creature  that  comes  near  her.  It 's  a  strange  thing 
about  the  child.  I  never  have  been  able  to  break  her  of  it. 
St.  Clare,  I  believe,  encourages  her  in  it.  The  fact  is,  St. 
Clare  indulges  every  creature  under  this  roof  but  his  own 
wife." 

Again  Miss  Ophelia  sat  in  blank  silence. 

"  Now,  there  's  no  way  with  servants,"  said  Marie,  "  but  to 
put  them  down,  and  keep  them  down.  It  was  always  natural 
to  me,  from  a  child.  Eva  is  enough  to  spoil  a  whole  houseful. 
What  she  will  do  when  she  comes  to  keep  house  herself,  I  'm 
sure  I  don't  know.  I  hold  to  being  kind  to  servants,  —  I 
always  am ;  but  you  must  make  'em  know  their  place.  Eva 
never  does;  there's  no  getting  into  the  child's  head  the  first 
beginning  of  an  idea  what  a  servant's  place  is  !  You  heard  her 


192  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

offering  to  take  care  of  me  nights,  to  let  Mammy  sleep  !  That 's 
just  a  specimen  of  the  way  the  child  would  be  doing  all  the 
time,  if  she  was  left  to  herself." 

"  Why,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  bluntly,  "  I  suppose  you  think 
your  servants  are  human  creatures,  and  ought  to  have  some  rest 
when  they  are  tired." 

"  Certainly,  of  course.  I  'm  very  particular  in  letting  them 
have  everything  that  comes  convenient,  —  anything  that  does  n't 
put  one  at  all  out  of  the  way,  you  know.  Mammy  can  make 
up  her  sleep,  some  time  or  other ;  there  's  no  difficulty  about 
that.  She  's  the  sleepiest  concern  that  ever  I  saw  ;  sewing, 
standing,  or  sitting,  that  creature  will  go  to  sleep,  and  sleep  any 
where  and  everywhere.  No  danger  but  Mammy  gets  sleep 
enough.  But  this  treating  servants  as  if  they  were  exotic  flow 
ers,  or  china  vases,  is  really  ridiculous,"  said  Marie,  as  she 
plunged  languidly  into  the  depths  of  a  voluminous  and  pillowy 
lounge,  and  drew  towards  her  an  elegant  cut-glass  vinaigrette. 

"  You  see,"  she  continued,  in  a  faint  and  lady-like  voice,  like 
the  last  dying  breath  of  an  Arabian  jessamine,  or  something 
equally  ethereal,  "  you  see,  Cousin  Ophelia,  I  don't  often  speak 
of  myself.  It  is  n't  my  habit ;  't  is  n't  agreeable  to  me.  In 
fact,  I  have  n't  strength  to  do  it.  But  there  are  points  where 
St.  Clare  and  I  differ.  St.  Clare  never  understood  me,  never 
appreciated  me.  I  think  it  lies  at  the  root  of  all  my  ill  health. 
St.  Clare  means  well,  I  am  bound  to  believe ;  but  men  are  con 
stitutionally  selfish  and  inconsiderate  to  woman.  That,  at  least, 
is  my  impression." 

Miss  Ophelia,  who  had  not  a  small  share  of  the  genuine  New 
England  caution,  and  a  very  particular  horror  of  being  drawn 
into  family  difficulties,  now  began  to  foresee  something  of  this 
kind  impending ;  so,  composing  her  face  into  a  grim  neutrality, 
and  drawing  out  of  her  pocket  about  a  yard  and  a  quarter  of 
stocking,  which  she  kept  as  a  specific  against  what  Dr.  Watts 
asserts  to  be  a  personal  habit  of  Satan  when  people  have  idle 
hands,  she  proceeded  to  knit  most  energetically,  shutting  her 
lips  together  in  a  way  that  said,  as  plain  as  words  could,  "  You 
need  n't  try  to  make  me  speak.  I  don't  want  anything  to  do 
with  your  affairs,"  —  in  fact,  she  looked  about  as  sympathizing 
as  a  stone  lion.  But  Marie  did  n't  care  for  that.  She  had  got 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  193 

somebody  to  talk  to,  and  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  talk,  and  that 
was  enough ;  and,  reinforcing  herself  by  smelling  again  at  her 
vinaigrette,  she  went  on. 

"  You  see,  I  brought  my  own  property  and  servants  into  the 
connection,  when  I  married  St.  Clare,  and  I  am  legally  entitled 
to  manage  them  my  own  way.  St.  Clare  had  his  fortune  and 
his  servants,  and  I  'm  well  enough  content  he  should  manage 
them  his  way  ;  but  St.  Clare  will  be  interfering.  He  has  wild, 
extravagant  notions  about  things,  particularly  about  the  treat 
ment  of  servants.  He  really  does  act  as  if  he  set  his  servants 
before  me,  and  before  himself,  too ;  for  he  lets  them  make  him 
all  sorts  of  trouble,  and  never  lifts  a  finger.  Now,  about  some 
things,  St.  Clare  is  really  frightful,  —  he  frightens  me,  —  good- 
natured  as  he  looks,  in  general.  Now,  he  has  set  down  his  foot 
that,  come  what  will,  there  shall  not  be  a  blow  struck  in  this 
house,  except  what  he  or  I  strike  ;  and  he  does  it  in  a  way  that 
I  really  dare  not  cross  him.  Well,  you  may  see  what  that  leads 
to ;  for  St.  Clare  would  n't  raise  his  hand,  if  every  one  of  them 
walked  over  him,  and  I  —  you  see  how  cruel  it  would  be  to  re 
quire  me  to  make  the  exertion.  Now,  you  know  these  servants 
are  nothing  but  grown-up  children." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  and  I  thank  the  Lord  that 
I  don't !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  shortly. 

"  Well,  but  you  will  have  to  know  something,  and  know  it  to 
your  cost,  if  you  stay  here.  You  don't  know  what  a  provoking> 
stupid,  careless,  unreasonable,  childish,  ungrateful  set  of  wretches 
they  are." 

Marie  seemed  wonderfully  supported,  always,  when  she  got 
upon  this  topic  ;  and  she  now  opened  her  eyes,  and  seemed 
quite  to  forget  her  languor. 

"  You  don't  know,  and  you  can't,  the  daily,  hourly  trials  that 
beset  a  housekeeper  from  them,  everywhere  and  every  way. 
But  it 's  no  use  to  complain  to  St.  Clare.  He  talks  the  strangest 
stuff.  He  says  we  have  made  them  what  they  are,  and  ought 
to  bear  with  them.  He  says  their  faults  are  all  owing  to  us,  and 
that  it  would  be  cruel  to  make  the  fault  and  punish  it  too.  He 
says  we  should  n't  do  any  better,  in  their  place ;  just  as  if  one 
eould  reason  from  them  to  us,  you  know." 
13 


194  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  Don't  you  believe  that  the  Lord  made  them  of  one  blood 
with  us  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  shortly. 

"  No,  indeed,  not  I !  A  pretty  story,  truly  !  They  are  a  de 
graded  race." 

"  Don't  you  think  they  Ve  got  immortal  souls  ?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  with  increasing  indignation. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Marie,  yawning,  "  that,  of  course  —  nobody 
doubts  that.  Bat  as  to  putting  them  on  any  sort  of  equality 
with  us,  you  know,  as  if  we  could  be  compared,  why,  it 's  im 
possible  !  Now,  St.  Clare  really  has  talked  to  me  as  if  keeping 
Mammy  from  her  husband  was  like  keeping  me  from  mine. 
There  's  no  comparing  in  this  way.  Mammy  could  n't  have  the 
feelings  that  I  should.  It 's  a  different  thing  altogether,  —  of 
course,  it  is,  —  and  yet  St.  Clare  pretends  not  to  see  it.  And 
just  as  if  Mammy  could  love  her  little  dirty  babies  as  I  love 
Eva  !  Yet  St.  Clare  once  really  and  soberly  tried  to  persuade 
me  that  it  was  my  duty,  with  my  weak  health,  and  all  I  suffer, 
to  let  Mammy  go  back,  and  take  somebody  else  in  her  place. 
That  was  a  little  too  much  even  for  me  to  bear.  I  don't  often 
show  my  feelings.  I  make  it  a  principle  to  endure  everything 
in  silence  ;  it 's  a  wife's  hard  lot,  and  I  bear  it.  But  I  did 
break  out,  that  time ;  so  that  he  has  never  alluded  to  the  sub 
ject  since.  But  I  know  by  his  looks,  and  little  things  that  he 
says,  that  he  thinks  so  as  much  as  ever  ;  and  it 's  so  trying,  so 
provoking !  " 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  very  much  as  if  she  was  afraid  she 
should  say  something ;  but  she  rattled  away  with  her  needles  in 
a  way  that  had  volumes  of  meaning  in  it,  if  Marie  could  only 
have  understood  it. 

"  So,  you  just  see,"  she  continued,  "  what  you  Ve  got  to 
manage.  A  household  without  any  rule  ;  where  servants  have 
it  all  their  own  way,  do  what  they  please,  and  have  what  they 
please,  except  so  far  as  I,  with  my  feeble  health,  have  kept  up 
government.  I  keep  my  cowhide  about,  and  sometimes  I  do 
lay  it  on  ;  but  the  exertion  is  always  too  much  for  me.  If  St. 
Clare  would  only  have  this  thing  done  as  others  do  "  — 

"And  how's  that?" 

"  Why,  send  them  to  the  calaboose,  or  some  of  the  other 
places,  to  be  flogged.  That 's  the  only  way.  If  I  was  n't  such 


LIFE  AMONG   THE    LOWLY.  195 

a  poor,  feeble  piece,  I  believe  I  should  manage  with  twice  the 
energy  that  St.  Clare  does." 

"  And  how  does  St.  Clare  contrive  to  manage  ?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia.  "  You  say  he  never  strikes  a  blow." 

"  Well,  men  have  a  more  commanding  way,  you  know ;  it  is 
easier  for  them ;  besides,  if  you  ever  looked  full  in  his  eye,  it 's 
peculiar,  —  that  eye,  —  and  if  he  speaks  decidedly,  there 's  a 
kind  of  flash.  I  'm  afraid  of  it,  myself ;  and  the  servants  know 
they  must  mind.  I  could  n't  do  as  much  by  a  regular  storm  and 
scolding  as  St.  Clare  can  by  one  turn  of  his  eye,  if  once  he  is  in 
earnest.  Oh,  there  's  no  trouble  about  St.  Clare  ;  that 's  the 
reason  he  's  no  more  feeling  for  me.  But  you  '11  find,  when  you 
come  to  manage,  that  there  's  no  getting  along  without  severity, 
—  they  are  so  bad,  so  deceitful,  so  lazy." 

"  The  old  tune,"  said  St.  Clare,  sauntering  in.  "  What  an 
awful  account  these  wicked  creatures  will  have  to  settle,  at  last, 
especially  for  being  lazy !  You  see,  cousin,"  said  he,  as  he 
stretched  himself  at  full  length  on  a  lounge  opposite  to  Marie, 
"  it 's  wholly  inexcusable  in  them,  in  the  light  of  the  example 
that  Marie  and  I  set  them,  —  this  laziness." 

"  Come,  now,  St.  Clare,  you  are  too  bad  !  "  said  Marie. 

"  Am  I,  now  ?  Why,  I  thought  I  was  talking  good,  quite  re 
markably  for  me.  I  try  to  enforce  your  remarks,  Marie,  al 
ways." 

"  You  know  you  meant  no  such  thing,  St.  Clare,"  said  Marie. 

"  Oh,  I  must  have  been  mistaken,  then.  Thank  you,  my  dear, 
for  setting  me  right." 

"  You  do  really  try  to  be  provoking,"  said  Marie. 

"  Oh,  come,  Marie,  the  day  is  growing  warm,  and  I  have  just 
had  a  long  quarrel  with  Dolph,  which  has  fatigued  me  exces 
sively  ;  so,  pray  be  agreeable,  now,  and  let  a  fellow  repose  in 
the  light  of  your  smile." 

"  What 's  the  matter  about  Dolph  ?  "  said  Marie.  "  That  fel 
low's  impudence  has  been  growing  to  a  point  that  is  perfectly 
intolerable  to  me.  I  only  wish  I  had  the  undisputed  manage 
ment  of  him  awhile.  I  'd  bring  him  down  !  " 

"  What  you  say,  my  dear,  is  marked  with  your  usual  acute- 
ness  and  good  sense,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  As  10  Dolph,  the  case 
is  this  :  that  he  has  so  long  been  engaged  in  imitating  my  graces 


196  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OK, 

and  perfections,  that  he  has,  at  last,  really  mistaken  himself  for 
his  master  ;  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  give  him  a  little  insight 
into  his  mistake." 

"  How  ?  "  said  Marie. 

"  Why,  I  was  obliged  to  let  him  understand  explicitly  that  I 
preferred  to  keep  some  of  my  clothes  for  my  own  personal  wear 
ing  ;  also,  I  put  his  magnificence  upon  an  allowance  of  cologne- 
water,  and  actually  was  so  cruel  as  to  restrict  him  to  one  dozen 
of  my  cambric  handkerchiefs.  Dolph  was  particularly  huffy 
about  it,  and  I  had  to  talk  to  him  like  a  father,  to  bring  him 
round." 

"  Oh,  St.  Clare,  when  will  you  learn  how  to  treat  your  ser 
vants  ?  It 's  abominable,  the  way  you  indulge  them !  "  said 
Marie. 

"  Why,  after  all,  what 's  the  harm  of  the  poor  dog's  wanting 
to  be  like  his  master ;  and  if  I  have  n't  brought  him  up  any  bet 
ter  than  to  find  his  chief  good  in  cologne  and  cambric  handker 
chiefs,  why  should  n't  I  give  them  to  him  ?  " 

'  y  haven't  you  brought  him  up  better?"  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  with  blunt  determination. 

"  Too  much  trouble,  —  laziness,  cousin,  laziness,  —  which 
ruins  more  souls  than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at.  If  it  were  n't 
for  laziness,  I  should  have  been  a  perfect  angel,  myself.  I  'm 
inclined  to  think  that  laziness  is  what  your  old  Dr.  Botherem, 
up  in  Vermont,  used  to  call  the  l  essence  of  moral  evil.'  It's  an 
awful  consideration,  certainly." 

"  I  think  you  slave-holders  have  an  awful  responsibility  upon 
you,"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "I  wouldn't  have  it,  for  a  thousand 
worlds.  You  ought  to  educate  your  slaves,  and  treat  them  like 
reasonable  creatures,  —  like  immortal  creatures,  that  you  Ye 
got  to  stand  before  the  bar  of  God  with.  That 's  my  mind," 
said  the  good  lady,  breaking  suddenly  out  with  a  tide  of  zeal 
that  had  been  gaining  strength  in  her  mind  all  the  morning. 

"  Oh,  come,  come,"  said  St.  Clare,  getting  up  quickly  ;  "  what 
do  you  know  about  us  ?  "  And  he  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and 
rattled  a  lively  piece  of  music.  St.  Clare  had  a  decided  genius 
for  music.  His  touch  was  brilliant  and  firm,  and  his  fingers 
flew  over  the  keys  with  a  rapid  and  bird-like  motion,  airy,  and 
yet  decided.  He  played  piece  after  piece,  like  a  man  who  is 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  197 

trying  to  play  himself  into  a  good  humor.  After  pushing  the 
music  aside,  he  rose  up,  and  said,  gayly,  "  Well,  now,  cousin, 
you  've  given  us  a  good  talk,  and  done  your  duty  ;  on  the  whole, 
I  think  the  better  of  you  for  it.  I  make  no  manner  of  doubt 
that  you  threw  a  very  diamond  of  truth  at  me,  though  you  see 
it  hit  me  so  directly  in  the  face  that  it  was  n't  exactly  appre 
ciated,  at  first." 

"  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  any  use  in  such  sort  of  talk,"  said 
Marie.  "  I  'm  sure,  if  anybody  does  more  for  servants  than 
we  do,  I  'd  like  to  know  who  ;  and  it  don't  do  'em  a  bit  good, 
—  not  a  particle,  —  they  get  worse  and  worse.  As  to  talking 
to  them,  or  anything  like  that,  I  'm  sure  I  have  talked  till  I  was 
tired  and  hoarse,  telling  them  their  duty,  and  all  that ;  and  I  'm 
sure  they  can  go  to  church  when  they  like,  though  they  don't 
understand  a  word  of  the  sermon,  more  than  so  many  pigs,  — 
so  it  is  n't  of  any  great  use  for  them  to  go,  as  I  see  ;  but  they 
do  go,  and  so  they  have  every  chance  ;  but,  as  I  said  before, 
they  are  a  degraded  race,  and  always  will  be,  and  there  is  n't 
any  help  for  them  ;  you  can't  make  anything  of  them,  if  you 
try.  You  see,  Cousin  Ophelia,  I  Ve  tried,  and  you  have  n't ;  I 
was  born  and  bred  among  them,  and  I  know." 

Miss  Ophelia  thought  she  had  said  enough,  and  therefore  sat 
silent.  St.  Clare  whistled  a  tune. 

"  St.  Clare,  I  wish  you  would  n't  whistle,"  said  Marie  ;  "  it 
makes  my  head  worse." 

"I  won't,"  said  St.  Clare.  "Is  there  anything  else  you 
rrould  n't  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  have  some  kind  of  sympathy  for  my 
trials  ;  you  never  have  any  feeling  for  me." 

"  My  dear  accusing  angel !  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  It  's  provoking  to  be  talked  to  in  that  way." 

"  Then  how  will  you  be  talked  to  ?  I  '11  talk  to  order,  — 
any  way  you  '11  mention,  — only  to  give  satisfaction." 

A  gay  laugh  from  the  court  rang  through  the  silken  curtains 
of  the  veranda.  St.  Clare  stepped  out,  and  lifting  up  the  cur 
tain,  laughed  too. 

*'  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  to  the  railing. 

There  sat  Tom,  on  a  little  mossy  seat  in  the  court,  every  one 
of  his  button-holes  stuck  full  of  cape  jessamines,  and  Eva,  gayly 


198  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

laughing,  was  hanging  a  wreath  of  roses  round  his  neck ;  and 
then  she  sat  down  on  his  knee,  like  a  chip-sparrow,  still  laughing. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  you  look  so  funny  !  " 

Tom  had  a  sober,  benevolent  smile,  and  seemed,  in  his  quiet 
way,  to  be  enjoying  the  fun  quite  as  much  as  his  little  mistress. 
He  lifted  his  eyes,  when  he  saw  his  master,  with  a  half-depre 
cating,  apologetic  air. 

"How  can  you  let  her?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  it  seems  so  dreadful !  " 

"  You  would  think  no  harm  in  a  child's  caressing  a  large  dog, 
even  if  he  was  black ;  but  a  creature  that  can  think,  and  reason, 
and  feel,  and  is  immortal,  you  shudder  at ;  confess  it,  cousin. 
I  know  the  feeling  among  some  of  you  northerners  well  enough. 
Not  that  there  is  a  particle  of  virtue  in  our  not  having  it ;  but 
custom  with  us  does  what  Christianity  ought  to  do,  —  oblit 
erates  the  feeling  of  personal  prejudice.  I  have  often  noticed, 
in  my  travels  north,  how  much  stronger  this  was  with  you  than 
with  us.  You  loathe  them  as  you  would  a  snake  or  a  toad,  yet 
you  are  indignant  at  their  wrongs.  You  would  not  have  them 
abused ;  but  you  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  them 
yourselves.  You  would  send  them  to  Africa,  out  of  your  sight 
and  smell,  and  then  send  a  missionary  or  two  to  do  up  all  the 
self-denial  of  elevating  them  compendiously.  Is  n't  that  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  cousin,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  thoughtfully,  "  there  may 
be  some  truth  in  this." 

"  What  would  the  poor  and  lowly  do,  without  children  ?  "  said 
St.  Clare,  leaning  on  the  railing,  and  watching  Eva,  as  she 
tripped  off,  leading  Tom  with  her.  "  Your  little  child  is  your 
only  true  democrat.  Tom,  now,  is  a  hero  to  Eva ;  his  stories 
are  wonders  in  her  eyes,  his  songs  and  Methodist  hymns  are 
better  than  an  opera,  and  the  traps  and  little  bits  of  trash  in 
liis  pocket  a  mine  of  jewels,  and  he  the  most  wonderful  Tom 
that  ever  wore  a  black  skin.  This  is  one  of  the  roses  of  Eden 
that  the  Lord  has  dropped  down  expressly  for  the  poor  and 
lowly,  who  get  few  enough  of  any  other  kind." 

"  It 's  strange,  cousin,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ;  "  one  might  almost 
think  you  were  a,  professor,  to  hear  you  talk." 
"  A  professor  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  199 

"  Yes ;  a  professor  of  religion." 

"  Not  at  all ;  not  a  professor  as  your  town-folks  have  it ;  and, 
what  is  worse,  I  'm  afraid,  not  zpractiser,  either." 

"  What  makes  you  talk  so,  then  ?  " 

"  Nothing  is  easier  than  talking,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  I  believe 
Shakespeare  makes  somebody  say,  '  I  could  sooner  show  twenty 
what  were  good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow 
my  own  showing.'  Nothing  like  division  of  labor.  My  forte 
lies  in  talking,  and  yours,  cousin,  lies  in  doing." 


In  Tom's  external  situation,  at  this  time,  there  was,  as  the 
world  says,  nothing  to  complain  of.  Little  Eva's  fancy  for 
him  —  the  instinctive  gratitude  and  loveliness  of  a  noble 
nature  —  had  led  her  to  petition  her  father  that  he  might  be 
her  especial  attendant,  whenever  she  needed  the  escort  of  a 
servant,  in  her  walks  or  rides  ;  and  Tom  had  general  orders  to 
let  everything  else  go,  and  attend  to  Miss  Eva  whenever  she 
wanted  him,  —  orders  which  our  readers  may  fancy  were  far 
from  disagreeable  to  him.  He  was  kept  well  dressed,  for 
St.  Clare  was  fastidiously  particular  on  this  point.  His  stable 
services  were  merely  a  sinecure,  and  consisted  simply  in  a  daily 
care  and  inspection,  and  directing  an  under-servant  in  his  duties  ; 
for  Marie  St.  Clare  declared  that  she  could  not  have  any  smell 
of  the  horses  about  him  when  he  came  near  her,  and  that  he 
must  positively  not  be  put  to  any  service  that  would  make  him 
unpleasant  to  her,  as  her  nervous  system  was  entirely  inadequate 
to  any  trial  of  that  nature ;  one  snuff  of  anything  disagreeable 
being,  according  to  her  account,  quite  sufficient  to  close  the 
scene,  and  put  an  end  to  all  her  earthly  trials  at  once.  Tom, 
therefore,  in  his  well-brushed  broadcloth  suit,  smooth  beaver, 
glossy  boots,  faultless  wristbands  and  collar,  with  his  grave, 
good-natured,  black  face,  looked  respectable  enough  to  be  a 
Bishop  of  Carthage,  as  men  of  color  were,  in  other  ages. 

Then,  too,  he  was  in  a  beautiful  place,  a  consideration  to 
which  his  sensitive  race  are  never  indifferent ;  and  he  did  enjoy 
with  a  quiet  joy,  the  birds,  the  flowers,  the  fountains,  the  per 
fume,  and  light  and  beauty  of  the  court,  the  silken  hangings, 


200  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;    OR, 

and  pictures,  and  lustres,  and  statuettes,  and  gilding,  that  made 
the  parlors  within  a  kind  of  Aladdin's  palace  to  him. 

If  ever  Africa  shall  show  an  elevated  and  cultivated  race,  — 
and  come  it  must,  some  time,  her  turn  to  figure  in  the  great 
drama  of  human  improvement,  —  life  will  awake  there  with  a 
gorgeousness  and  splendor  of  which  our  cold  western  tribes 
faintly  have  conceived.  In  that  far-off  mystic  land  of  gold, 
and  gems,  and  spices,  and  waving  palms,  and  wondrous  flowers, 
and  miraculous  fertility,  will  awake  new  forms  of  avt,  new 
styles  of  splendor ;  and  the  negro  race,  no  longer  despised  and 
trodden  down,  will,  perhaps,  show  forth  some  of  the  latest  and 
most  magnificent  revelations  of  human  life.  Certainly  they 
will  in  their  gentleness,  their  lowly  docility  of  heart,  their 
aptitude  to  repose  on  a  superior  mind  and  rest  on  a  higher 
power,  their  childlike  simplicity  of  affection,  and  facility  of 
forgiveness.  In  all  these  they  will  exhibit  the  highest  form  of 
the  peculiarly  Christian  life,  and,  perhaps,  as  God  chasteneth 
whom  he  loveth,  he  hath  chosen  poor  Africa  in  the  furnace  of 
affliction,  to  make  her  the  highest  and  noblest  in  that  kingdom 
which  he  will  set  up,  when  every  other  kingdom  has  been  tried, 
and  failed  ;  for  the  first  shall  be  last,  and  the  last  first. 

Was  this  what  Marie  St.  Clare  was  thinking  of,  as  she  stood, 
gorgeously  dressed,  on  the  veranda,  on  Sunday  morning,  clasp 
ing  a  diamond  bracelet  on  her  slender  wrist  ?  Most  likely  it 
was.  Or,  if  it  was  n't  that,  it  was  something  else  ;  for  Marie 
patronized  good  things,  and  she  was  going  now,  in  full  force,  — 
diamonds,  silk,  and  lace,  and  jewels,  and  all,  —  to  a  fashionable 
church,  to  be  very  religious.  Marie  always  made  a  point  to  be 
very  pious  on  Sundays.  There  she  stood,  so  slender,  so  elegant, 
so  airy  and  undulating  in  all  her  motions,  her  lace  scarf  envelop 
ing  her  like  a  mist.  She  looked  a  graceful  creature,  and  she 
felt  very  good  and  very  elegant  indeed.  Miss  Ophelia  stood  at 
her  side,  a  perfect  contrast.  It  was  not  that  she  had  not  as 
handsome  a  silk  dress  and  shawl,  and  as  fine  a  pocket-handker 
chief ;  but  stiffness,  and  squareness,  and  bolt-uprightness  envel 
oped  her  with  as  indefinite  yet  appreciable  a  presence  as  did 
grace  her  elegant  neighbor  ;  not  the  grace  of  God,  however,  — 
that  is  quite  another  thing ! 

"  Where  's  Eva  ?  "  said  Marie. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  201 

"The  child  stopped  on  the  stairs,  to  say  something  to 
Mammy." 

And  what  was  Eva  saying  to  Mammy  on  the  stairs  ?  Listen, 
reader,  and  you  will  hear,  though  Marie  does  not. 

"  Dear  Mammy,  I  know  your  head  is  aching  dreadfully." 

"  Lord  bless  you,  Miss  Eva !  my  head  allers  aches  lately. 
You  don't  need  to  worry.'' 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  you  're  going  out ;  and  here,"  —  and  the 
little  girl  threw  her  arms  around  her,  —  "  Mammy,  you  shall 
take  my  vinaigrette." 

"  What !  your  beautiful  gold  thing,  thar,  with  them  dia 
monds  !  Lor,  Miss,  't  would  n't  be  proper,  no  ways." 

"  Why  not  ?  You  need  it,  and  I  don't.  Mamma  always 
uses  it  for  headache,  and  it  '11  make  you  feel  better.  No,  you 
shall  take  it,  to  please  me,  now." 

**  Do  hear  the  darling  talk  !  "  said  Mammy,  as  Eva  thrust  it 
into  her  bosom,  and,  kissing  her,  ran  down  stairs  to  her  mother. 

"  What  were  you  stopping  for  ?  " 

"  I  was  just  stopping  to  give  Mammy  my  vinaigrette,  to  take 
to  church  with  her." 

"  Eva  !  "  said  Marie,  stamping  impatiently,  —  **  your  gold 
vinaigrette  to  Mammy  !  When  will  you  learn  what 's  proper  ? 
Go  right  and  take  it  back,  this  moment !  " 

Eva  looked  downcast  and  aggrieved,  and  turned  slowly. 

u  I  say,  Marie,  let  the  child  alone  ;  she  shall  do  as  she 
pleases,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"  St.  Clare,  how  will  she  ever  get  along  in  the  world  ?  "  said 
Marie. 

"  The  Lord  knows."  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  but  she  '11  get  along  in 
heaven  better  than  you  or  I." 

"  Oh,  papa,  don't,"  said  Eva,  softly  touching  his  elbow ;  "  it 
troubles  mother." 

"  Well,  cousin,  are  you  ready  to  go  to  meeting  ?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  turning  square  about  on  St.  Clare. 

"  I  'm  not  going,  thank  you." 

"  I  do  wish  St.  Clare  ever  would  go  to  church,"  said  Marie  ; 
"  but  he  has  n't  a  particle  of  religion  about  him.  It  really  is  n't 
respectable." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  St.  Clare.     "  You  ladies  go  to   church  to 


202  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

learn  how  to  get  along  in  the  world,  I  suppose,  and  your  piety 
sheds  respectability  on  us.  If  I  did  go  at  all,  I  would  go  where 
Mammy  goes  ;  there 's  something  to  keep  a  fellow  awake  there, 
at  least." 

"  What !  those  shouting  Methodists  ?    Horrible  !  "  said  Marie. 

"Anything  but  the  dead  sea  of  your  respectable  churches, 
Marie.  Positively,  it 's  too  much  to  ask  of  a  man.  Eva,  do 
you  like  to  go  ?  Come,  stay  at  home  and  play  with  me." 

"  Thank  you,  papa  ;  but  I  'd  rather  go  to  church." 

"  Is  n't  it  dreadful  tiresome  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  I  think  it  is  tiresome,  some,"  said  Eva ;  "  and  I  am  sleepy, 
too,  but  I  try  to  keep  awake." 

"  What  do  you  go  for,  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  know,  papa,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  cousin 
told  me  that  God  wants  to  have  us  ;  and  he  gives  us  everything 
you  know ;  and  it  is  n't  much  to  do  it,  if  he  wants  us  to.  It 
is  n't  so  very  tiresome,  after  all." 

"You  sweet,  little  obliging  soul !  "  said  St.  Clare,  kissing  her  ; 
"  go  along,  that 's  a  good  girl,  and  pray  for  me." 

"  Certainly,  I  always  do,"  said  the  child,  as  she  sprang  after 
her  mother  into  the  carriage. 

St.  Clare  stood  on  the  steps  and  kissed  his  hand  to  her,  as 
the  carriage  drove  away  ;  large  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

"  Oh  !  Evangeline  !  rightly  named,"  he  said  ;  "  hath  not  God 
made  thee  an  evangel  to  me  ?  " 

So  he  felt  a  moment ;  and  then  he  smoked  a  cigar,  and  read 
the  Picayune,  and  forgot  his  little  gospel.  Was  he  much  un 
like  other  folks  ? 

"You  see,  Evangeline,"  said  her  mother,  "it's  always  right 
and  proper  to  be  kind  to  servants,  but  it  is  n't  proper  to  treat 
them  just  as  we  would  our  relations,  or  people  in  our  own  class 
of  life.  Now,  if  Mammy  was  sick,  you  would  n't  want  to  put 
her  in  your  bed." 

"  I  should  feel  just  like  it,  mamma,"  said  Eva,  "because  then 
it  would  be  handier  to  take  care  of  her,  and  because,  you  know, 
my  bed  is  better  than  hers." 

Marie  was  in  utter  despair  at  the  entire  want  of  moral  per 
ception  evinced  in  this  reply. 

"  What  can  I  do  to  make  this  child  understand  me  ?  "  she 
said. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  203 

"Nothing,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  significantly. 

Eva  looked  sorry  and  disconcerted  for  a  moment ;  but  chil 
dren,  luckily,  do  not  keep  to  one  impression  long,  and  in  a  few 
moments  she  was  merrily  laughing  at  various  things  which  she 
saw  from  the  coach-windows,  as  it  Battled  along. 

"  Well,  ladies,"  said  St.  Clare,  as  they  were  comfortably 
seated  at  the  dinner-table,  "and  what  was  the  bill  of  fare  at 
church  to-day  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Dr.  G preached  a  splendid  sermon,"  said  Marie. 

"  It  was  just  such  a  sermon  as  you  ought  to  hear  ;  it  expressed 
all  my  views  exactly." 

"  It  must  have  been  very  improving,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  The 
subject  must  have  been  an  extensive  one." 

"  Well,  I  mean  all  my  views  about  society,  and  such  things," 
said  Marie.  "  The  text  was,  '  He  hath  made  everything  beau 
tiful  in  its  season  ; '  and  he  showed  how  all  the  orders  and  dis 
tinctions  in  society  came  from  God ;  and  that  it  was  so  appro 
priate,  you  know,  and  beautiful,  that  some  should  be  high  and 
some  low,  and  that  some  were  born  to  rule  and  some  to  serve, 
and  all  that,  you  know ;  and  he  applied  it  so  well  to  all  this 
ridiculous  fuss  that  is  made  about  slavery,  and  he  proved  dis 
tinctly  that  the  Bible  was  on  our  side,  and  supported  all  our  in 
stitutions  so  convincingly.  I  only  wish  you  'd  heard  him." 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  need  it,"  said  St.  Clare.     "  I  can  learn  what 
does  me  as  much  good  as  that  from  the  Picayune,  any  tin:  E 
smoke  a  cigar  besides  ;  which  I  can't  do,  you  know,  in  a  ch 

"Why,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "don't  you  believe  in  ,e 
views  ?  " 

"  Who,  —  I  ?  You  know  I  'm  such  a  graceless  dog  x  r.  hese 
religious  aspects  of  such  subjects  don't  edify  me  mucj  u  If  I 
was  to  say  anything  on  this  slavery  matter^  I  would  s,  it, 
fair  and  square,  '  We  're  in  for  it ;  we  've  got  'em,  and  m  -> 
keep  'em,  —  it 's  for  our  convenience  and  our  interest ; '  for 
that 's  the  long  and  short  of  it,  —  that 's  just  the  whole  of  what- 
all  this  sanctified  stuff  amounts  to,  after  all ;  and  I  think  t  ' 
will  be  intelligible  to  everybody,  everywhere." 

"  I  do  think,  Augustine,  you  are  so  irreverent .'  "  said  M*>-* 
"  I  think  it 's  shocking  to  hear  you  talk." 


204  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Shocking  !  it 's  the  truth.  This  religious  talk  on  such  mat 
ters,  —  why  don't  they  carry  it  a  little  further,  and  show  the 
beauty,  in  its  season,  of  a  fellow's  taking  a  glass  too  much,  and 
sitting  a  little  too  late  over  his  cards,  and  various  providential 
arrangements  of  that  sort,  which  are  pretty  frequent  among  us 
young  men  ;  we  'd  like  to  hear  that  those  are  right  and  godly, 
too." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  do  you  think  slavery  right  or 
wrong  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  have  any  of  your  horrid  New  England 
directness,  cousin,"  said  St.  Clare,  gayly.  "  If  I  answer  that 
question,  I  know  you  '11  be  at  me  with  half  a  dozen  others,  each 
one  harder  than  the  last ;  and  I  'm  not  a  going  to  define  my  po 
sition.  I  am  one  of  the  sort  that  lives  by  throwing  stones  at 
other  people's  glass  houses,  but  I  never  mean  to  put  up  one  for 
them  to  stone." 

"  That 's  just  the  way  he  's  always  talking,"  said  Marie  ; 
"  you  can't  get  any  satisfaction  out  of  him.  I  believe  it 's  just 
because  he  don't  like  religion,  that  he  's  always  running  out  in 
this  way  he  's  been  doing." 

"  Religion !  "  said  St.  Clare,  in  a  tone  that  made  both  ladies 
look  at  him.  "  Religion !  Is  what  you  hear  at  church  religion  ? 
Is  that  which  can  bend  and  turn,  and  descend  and  ascend,  to 
fit  every  crooked  phase  of  selfish,  worldly  society,  religion  ?  Is 
that  religion  which  is  less  scrupulous,  less  generous,  less  just, 
less  considerate  for  man,  than  even  my  own  ungodly,  worldly, 
bonded  nature  ?  No  !  When  I  look  for  a  religion,  I  must  look 
for  something  above  me,  and  not  something  beneath." 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  that  the  Bible  justifies  slavery,"  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

"  The  Bible  was  my  mother's  book,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  By  it 
she  lived  and  died,  and  I  would  be  very  sorry  to  think  it  did. 
I  'd  as  soon  desire  to  have  it  proved  that  my  mother  could  drink 
brandy,  chew  tobacco,  and  swear,  by  way  of  satisfying  me  that 
I  did  right  in  doing  the  same.  It  would  n't  make  me  at  all 
more  satisfied  with  these  things  in  myself,  and  it  would  take 
from  me  the  comfort  of  respecting  her ;  and  it  really  is  a  com 
fort,  in  this  world  to  have  anything  one  can  respect.  In  short, 
you  see,"  said  he,  suddenly  resuming  his  gay  tone,  "all  I  want 


LIFE   AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  205 

is  that  different  things  be  kept  in  different  boxes.  The  whole 
framework  of  society,  both  in  Europe  and  America,  is  made  up 
of  various  things  which  will  not  stand  the  scrutiny  of  any  very 
ideal  standard  of  morality.  It 's  pretty  generally  understood 
that  men  don't  aspire  after  the  absolute  right,  but  only  to  do 
about  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  world.  Now,  when  any  one 
speaks  up,  like  a  man,  and  says  slavery  is  necessary  to  us,  we 
can't  get  along  without  it,  we  should  be  beggared  if  we  give  it 
up,  and,  of  course,  we  mean  to  hold  on  to  it,  —  this  is  strong, 
clear,  well-defined  language ;  it  has  the  respectability  of  truth 
to  it ;  and  if  we  may  judge  by  their  practice,  the  majority  of 
the  world  will  bear  us  out  in  it.  But  when  he  begins  to  put  on 
a  long  face,  and  snuffle,  and  quote  Scripture,  I  incline  to  think 
he  is  n't  much  better  than  he  should  be." 

"  You  are  very  uncharitable,"  said  Marie. 

"Well,"  said  St.  Clare,  "suppose  that  something  should  bring 
down  the  price  of  cotton  once  and  forever,  and  make  the  whole 
slave  property  a  drug  in  the  market,  don't  you  think  we  should 
soon  have  another  version  of  the  Scripture  doctrine  ?  What  a 
flood  of  light  would  pour  into  the  church,  all  at  once,  and  how 
immediately  it  would  be  discovered  that  everything  in  the  Bible 
and  reason  went  the  other  way  !  " 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Marie,  as  she  reclined  herself  on  a 
lounge,  "I  'm  thankful  I  'm  born  where  slavery  exists ;  and  I 
believe  it 's  right,  —  indeed,  I  feel  it  must  be  ;  and,  at  any  rate, 
I  'm  sure  I  could  n't  get  along  without  it." 

"  I  say,  what  do  you  think,  pussy  ?  "  said  her  father  to  Eva, 
who  came  in  at  this  moment,  with  a  flower  in  her  hand. 

"  What  about,  papa  ?  " 

"  Why,  which  do  you  like  the  best,  —  to  live  as  they  do  at 
your  uncle's,  up  in  Vermont,  or  to  have  a  houseful  of  servants, 
as  we  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  our  way  is  the  pleasantest,"  said  Eva. 

"  Why  so  ?  "  said  St.  Clare,  stroking  her  head. 

"  Why,  it  makes  so  many  more  round  you  to  love,  you  know," 
said  Eva,  looking  up  earnestly. 

"  Now,  that 's  just  like  Eva,"  said  Marie ;  "  just  one  of  her 
odd  speeches." 

"  Is  it  an  odd  speech,  papa  ?  "  said  Eva,  whisperingly,  as  she 
got  upon  his  knee. 


206  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"Rather,  as  this  world  goes,  pussy,"  said  St.  Clare.  "But 
where  has  my  little  Eva  been,  all  dinner-time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  've  been  up  in  Tom's  room,  hearing  him  sing,  and 
Aunt  Dinah  gave  me  my  dinner." 

"  Hearing  Tom  sing,  hey.?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  he  sings  such  beautiful  things  about  the  New 
Jerusalem,  and  bright  angels,  and  the  land  of  Canaan." 

"  I  dare  say  ;   it 's  better  than  the  opera,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  he  's  going  to  teach  them  to  me." 

"  Singing  lessons,  hey  ?  —  you  are  coming  on."     - 

"  Yes,  he  sings  for  me,  and  I  read  to  him  in  my  Bible ;  and 
ke  explains  what  it  means,  you  know." 

"  On  my  word,"  said  Marie,  laughing,  "  that  is  the  latest  joke 
of  the  season." 

"  Tom  is  n't  a  bad  hand,  now,  at  explaining  Scripture,  I  '11 
dare  swear,"  said  St.  Clare.  "Tom  has  a  natural  genius  for 
religion.  I  wanted  the  horses  out  early,  this  morning,  and  I 
stole  up  to  Tom's  cubiculum  there,  over  the  stables,  and  there 
I  heard  him  holding  a  meeting  by  himself ;  and,  in  fact,  I  have 
n't  heard  anything  quite  so  savory  as  Tom's  prayer,  this  some 
time.  He  put  in  for  me,  with  a  zeal  that  was  quite  apostolic." 

"  Perhaps  he  guessed  you  were  listening.  I  've  heard  of  that 
trick  before." 

"  If  he  did,  he  was  n't  very  politic ;  for  he  gave  the  Lord  his 
opinion  of  me,  pretty  freely.  Tom  seemed  to  think  there  was 
decidedly  room  for  improvement  in  me,  and  seemed  very  ear 
nest  that  I  should  be  converted." 

"  I  hope  you  '11  lay  it  to  heart,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  much  of  the  same  opinion,"  said  St.  Clare. 
"  Well,  we  shall  see,  —  shan't  we,  Eva  ?  " 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  207 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  FREEMAN'S  DEFENCE. 

THERE  was  a  gentle  bustle  at  the  Quaker  house,  as  the  after 
noon  drew  to  a  close.  Rachel  Halliday  moved  quietly  to  and 
fro,  collecting  from  her  household  stores  such  needments  as 
could  be  arranged  in  the  smallest  compass,  for  the  wanderers 
who  were  to  go  forth  that  night.  The  afternoon  shadows 
stretched  eastward,  and  the  round  red  sun  stood  thoughtfully 
on  the  horizon,  and  his  beams  shone  yellow  and  calm  into  the 
little  bedroom  where  George  and  his  wife  were  sitting.  He  was 
sitting  with  his  child  on  his  knee,  and  his  wife's  hand  in  his. 
Both  looked  thoughtful  and  serious,  and  traces  of  tears  were  on 
their  cheeks. 

"  Yes,  Eliza,"  said  George,  "  I  know  all  you  say  is  true.  You 
are  a  good  child,  —  a  great  deal  better  than  I  am ;  and  I  will 
try  to  do  as  you  say.  I  '11  try  to  act  worthy  of  a  free  man. 
I  '11  try  to  feel  like  a  Christian.  God  Almighty  knows  that 
I  've  meant  to  do  well,  —  tried  hard  to  do  well,  —  when  every 
thing  has  been  against  me ;  and  now  I  '11  forget  all  the  past, 
and  put  away  every  hard  and  bitter  feeling,  and  read  my  Bible, 
and  learn  to  be  a  good  man." 

"  And  when  we  get  to  Canada,"  said  Eliza,  "  I  can  help  you. 
I  can  do  dress-making  very  well ;  and  I  understand  fine  wash 
ing  and  ironing ;  and  between  us  we  can  find  something  to  live 
on." 

"Yes,  Eliza,  so  long  as  we  have  each  other  and  our  boy. 
Oh,  Eliza,  if  these  people  only  knew  what  a  blessing  it  is  for  a 
man  to  feel  that  his  wife  and  child  belong  to  him  !  I  Ve  often 
wondered  to  see  men  that  could  call  their  wives  and  children 
their  own  fretting  and  worrying  about  anything  else.  Why, 
I  feel  rich  and  strong,  though  we  have  nothing  but  our  bare 
hands.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  scarcely  ask  God  for  any  more. 


208  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ,-  OB, 

Yes,  though  I've  worked  hard  every  day,  till  I  am  twenty-five 
yeare  old,  and  have  not  a  cent  of  money,  nor  a  roof  to  cover 
me,  nor  a  spot  of  land  to  call  my  own,  yet,  if  they  will  only  let 
me  alone  now,  I  will  be  satisfied,  —  thankful;  I  will  work,  and 
send  back  the  money  for  you  and  rny  boy.  As  to  my  old  mas 
ter,  he  has  been  paid  five  times  over  for  all  he  ever  spent  for 
me.  I  don't  owe  him  anything." 

"  But  yet  we  are  not  quite  out  of  danger,"  said  Eliza  ;  "  we 
are  not  yet  in  Canada." 

"  True,"  said  George,  "  but  it  seems  as  if  I  smelt  the  free  air, 
and  it  makes  me  strong." 

At  this  moment,  voices  were  heard  in  the  outer  apartment,  in 
earnest  conversation,  and  very  soon  a  rap  was  heard  on  the  door. 
Eliza  started  and  opened  it. 

Simeon  Halliday  was  there,  and  with  him  a  Quaker  brother, 
whom  he  introduced  as  Phineas  Fletcher.  Phineas  was  tall  and 
lathy,  red  -  haired,  with  an  expression  of  great  acuteness  and 
shrewdness  in  his  face.  He  had  not  the  placid,  quiet,  unworldly 
air  of  Simeon  Halliday  ;  on  the  contrary,  a  particularly  wide 
awake  and  an  fait  appearance,  like  a  man  who  rather  prides 
himself  on  knowing  what  he  is  about,  and  keeping  a  bright  look 
out  ahead  ;  peculiarities  which  sorted  rather  oddly  with  his 
broad  brim  and  formal  phraseology. 

"  Our  friend  Phineas  hath  discovered  something  of  importance 
to  the  interests  of  thee  and  thy  party,  George,"  said  Simeon ; 
"  it  were  well  for  thee  to  hear  it." 

"  That  I  have,"  said  Phineas,  "  and  it  shows  the  use  of  a  man's 
always  sleeping  with  one  ear  open,  in  certain  places,  as  I  Ve 
always  said.  Last  night  I  stopped  at  a  little  lone  tavern,  ba<:k 
on  the  road.  Thee  remembers  the  place,  Sirn<  on.  where  we  sold 
some  apples,  last  year,  to  that  fat  woman,  with  the  great  ear 
rings.  Well,  I  was  tired  with  hard  driving  ;  and,  after  my 
supper,  I  stretched  myself  down  on  a  pile  of  bags  in  the  corner, 
and  pulled  a  buffalo  over  me,  to  wait  till  my  bed  was  ready ; 
and  what  does  I  do,  but  get  fast  asleep." 

"  With  one  ear  open,  Phineas  ?  "  said  Simeon,  quietly. 

"  No  ;  I  slept,  ears  and  all,  for  an  hour  or  two,  for  I  was 
pretty  well  tired  ;  but  when  I  came  to  myself  a  little,  I  found 
that  there  were  some  men  in  the  room,  sitting  round  a  table, 


LIFE   AMONG    THE    LOWLY.  209 

drinking  and  talking ;  and  I  thought,  before  I  made  much 
muster,  I  'd  just  see  wliat  they  were  up  to.  especially  as  I  heard 
them  say  something  about  the  i^uaker.s.  4  So,'  hay.-;  one,  'they 
are  up  in  the  Quaker  ;..  no  doubt,'  says  he.  Then  I 

••ned  with    both   ears,    and    I   found  that  they   were    talking 
about  this  very  party.      So  I  lay  and  heard  them  lay  off  all  their 
plans.     This  young  man.  they  .said,  wa«  to  be  sent  back  to  Ken 
tucky,  to  his  master,  v,.  ,ing  to  make  an  example  of  him, 
to  keep  ail  niggers  from  running  away  ;  and  hi.s  wife,  two  of  them 
were  going  to  run   down  to  New  0: .  -ell.  on   their  d 
account,  and  they  calculated  to  get  sixteen  or  eighteen  hundred 
dollars  for  her  ;  and  the  child,  they  said,  was  going  to  a  trader, 
who  had  bought  him;  and  then  there  was  the  boy,  Jim.  and 
mother,  they  were  to  go  back   to  their  masters  in    Kentucky. 

/  said  that  the:  :.oles.  in  a  town  a  little  p. 

ahead,  who  would  go  in  with  'erri  to  get  'ern  taken   up.  and 
young  woman  wa«  to  be  taken   before  a  judge;   a:  the 

if  small  and  smoothspoken.  was  to  sv>  /•  for 

and   get  her  delivered  /e  south. 

•  right  notion  of  the  track  we  are  going  to-night  ; 
and    they  rll   be  down  after  us-,  six  or  er  So,  now, 

what 's  to  be  done  ?  " 

The  group  that    r/,od    in   various   attitudes,  after  t.L 
nica  :  worthy  of  a  painter.      Rachel  Ifalliday,  who  ha/1 

taken  her  liands  out  of  a  batch  of  biscuit,  to  hear  the  news,  stood 
with  them  upraised  and   floury,  and  with  a  face  of  th< 
concern.      Simeon    looked     profoundly    thoughtful  ;     Eli/a    had 
throv/n   her  arms  around   her  husband,  and  was  looking   up  to 
him.      George  stood  with  clenched  hands  and  glov, :  and 

looking  L-  :.<:!•  man  might  look,  whose  wife  was  to  be  '•old 

at  auction,  and  son  sent  to  a  trader,  all  under  the  shelter  of  a 
Christian  nation's  laws. 

:s*t  shall  we  do.  George/  "  said  Kli/.a.  faintly. 

"  I  know  what  /  shall  do,"  said  as  he  stepped  into 

the  little  room,  and  began  examining  his  p! 

"Ay.  ay,"  said  Phineas.  noddi;  ;•  U  i   ~  ...  ",n  :   ••  thou 

se«rt,  Simeon,  how  it  will  work." 

"  I   see,"    said    Simeon,    sighing ;  "  I    pray  it   come    not   to 
that." 

M 


210  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

"  I  don't  want  to  involve  any  one  with  or  for  me,"  said  George. 
"  If  you  will  lend  me  your  vehicle  and  direct  me,  I  will  drive 
alone  to  the  next  stand.  Jim  is  a  giant  in  strength,  and  brave 
as  death  and  despair,  and  so  am  I." 

"  Ah,  well,  friend,"  said  Phineas,  "  but  thee  '11  need  a  driver, 
for  all  that.  Thee  's  quite  welcome  to  do  all  the  fighting,  thee 
knows  ;  but  I  know  a  thing  or  two  about  the  road,  that  thee 
doesn't." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  involve  you,"  said  George. 

*'  Involve,"  said  Phineas,  with  a  curious  and  keen  expres 
sion  of  face.  "  When  thee  does  involve  me,  please  to  let  me 
know." 

"  Phineas  is  a  wise  and  skilful  man,"  said  Simeon.  "  Thee 
does  well,  George,  to  abide  by  his  judgment ;  and,"  he  added, 
laying  his  hand  kindly  on  George's  shoulder,  and  pointing  to 
the  pistols,  "  be  not  over  hasty  with  these,  —  young  blood  is 
hot." 

"  I  will  attack  no  man,"  said  George.  "  All  I  ask  of  this 
country  is  to  be  let  alone,  and  I  will  go  out  peaceably  ;  but,"  — 
he  paused,  and  his  brow  darkened  and  his  face  worked,  —  "I  've 
had  a  sister  sold  in  that  New  Orleans  market.  I  know  what 
they  are  sold  for  ;  and  am  I  going  to  stand  by  and  see  them 
take  my  wife  and  sell  her,  when  God  has  given  me  a  pair  of 
strong  arms  to  defend  her  ?  No ;  God  help  me  !  I  '11  fight  to 
the  last  breath,  before  they  shall  take  my  wife  and  son.  Can 
you  blame  me  ?  " 

"  Mortal  man  cannot  blame  thee,  George.  Flesh  and  blood 
could  not  do  otherwise,"  said  Simeon.  '« Woe  unto  the  world 
because  of  offences,  but  woe  unto  them  through  whom  the  offence 
cometh." 

"  Would  not  even  you,  sir,  do  the  same,  in  my  place  ?  " 

"  I  pray  that  I  be  not  tried,"  said  Simeon ;  "  the  flesh  is 
weak." 

"  I  think  my  flesh  would  be  pretty  tolerable  strong,  in  such  a 
case,"  said  Phineas,  stretching  out  a  pair  of  arms  like  the  sails 
of  a  windmill.  "  I  an't  sure,  friend  George,  that  I  should  n't 
hold  a  fellow  for  thee,  if  thee  had  any  accounts  to  settle  with 
him." 

"  If  man  should  ever  resist  evil,"  said  Simeon,  "  then  George 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  211 

should  feel  free  to  do  it  now  :  but  the  leaders  of  our  people 
taught  a  more  excellent  way  ;  for  the  wrath  of  man  worketh  not 
the  righteousness  of  God ;  but  it  goes  sorely  against  the  corrupt 
will  of  man,  and  none  can  receive  it  save  they  to  whom  it  is 
given.  Let  us  pray  the  Lord  that  we  be  not  tempted." 

"  And  so  /  do,"  said  Phineas ;  "  but  if  we  are  tempted  too 
much,  —  why,  let  them  look  out,  that 's  all." 

"  It 's  quite  plain  thee  was  n't  born  a  Friend,"  said  Simeon, 
smiling.  "  The  old  nature  hath  its  way  in  thee  pretty  strong  as 
yet." 

To  tell  the  truth,  Phineas  had  been  a  hearty,  two-fisted  back 
woodsman,  a  vigorous  hunter,  and  a  dead  shot  at  a  buck  ;  but, 
having  wooed  a  pretty  Quakeress,  had  been  moved  by  the  power 
of  her  charms  to  join  the  society  in  his  neighborhood,  and  though 
he  was  an  honest,  sober,  and  efficient  member,  and  nothing  par 
ticular  could  be  alleged  against  him,  yet  the  more  spiritual 
among  them  could  not  but  discern  an  exceeding  lack  of  savor  in 
his  developments. 

"  Friend  Phineas  will  ever  have  ways  of  his  own,"  said 
Rachel  Halliday,  smiling  ;  "  but  we  all  think  that  his  heart  is  in 
the  right  place,  after  all." 

"  Well,"  said  George,  "  is  n't  it  best  that  we  hasten  our 
flight  ?  " 

"  I  got  up  at  four  o'clock,  and  come  on  with  all  speed,  full  two 
or  three  hours  ahead  of  them,  if  they  start  at  the  time  they 
planned.  It  is  n't  safe  to  start  till  dark,  at  any  rate  ;  for  there 
are  some  evil  persons  in  the  villages  ahead,  that  might  be  dis 
posed  to  meddle  with  us,  if  they  saw  our  wagon,  and  that  would 
delay  us  more  than  the  waiting ;  but  in  two  hours  I  think  we 
may  venture.  I  will  go  over  to  Michael  Cross,  and  engage  him 
to  come  behind  on  his  swift  nag,  and  keep  a  bright  lookout  on 
the  road,  and  warn  us  if  any  company  of  men  come  on.  Michael 
keeps  a  horse  that  can  soon  get  ahead  of  most  other  horses  ;  and 
he  could  shoot  ahead  and  let  us  know,  if  there  were  any  danger. 
I  am  going  out  now  to  warn  Jim  and  the  old  woman  to  be  in 
readiness,  and  see  about  the  horse.  We  have  a  pretty  fair 
start,  and  stand  a  good  chance  to  get  to  the  stand  before  they 
can  come  up  with  us.  So,  have  good  courage,  friend  George ; 
this  is  n't  the  first  ugly  scrape  that  I  've  been  in  with  thy  peo 
ple,"  said  Phineas,  as  he  closed  the  door. 


212  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OB, 

"  Phineas  is  pretty  shrewd,"  said  Simeon.  "  He  will  do  the 
best  that  can  be  done  for  thee,  George." 

"  All  I  am  sorry  for,"  said  George,  "  is  the  risk  to  you." 

"  Thee  '11  much  oblige  us,  friend  George,  to  say  no  more 
about  that.  What  we  do  we  are  conscience  bound  to  do  ;  we 
can  do  no  other  way.  And  now,  mother,"  said  he,  turning  to 
Rachel,  "  hurry  thy  preparations  for  these  friends,  for  we  must 
not  send  them  away  fasting." 

And  while  Rachel  and  her  children  were  busy  making  corn- 
cake,  and  cooking  ham  and  chicken,  and  hurrying  on  the  et 
ceteras  of  the  evening  meal,  George  and  his  wife  sat  in  their 
little  room,  with  their  arms  folded  about  each  other  in  such 
talk  as  husband  and  wife  have  when  they  know  that  a  few 
hours  may  part  them  forever. 

"  Eliza,"  said  George,  "  people  that  have  friends,  and  houses, 
and  lands,  and  money,  and  all  those  things,  can't  love  as  we 
do,  who  have  nothing  but  each  other.  Till  I  knew  you,  Eliza, 
no  creature  ever  had  loved  me,  but  my  poor,  heart-broken 
mother  arid  sister.  I  saw  poor  Emily  that  morning  the  trader 
carried  her  off.  She  came  to  the  corner  where  I  was  lying 
asleep,  and  said,  '  Poor  George,  your  last  friend  is  going.  What 
will  become  of  you,  poor  boy  ?  '  And  I  got  up  and  threw  my 
arms  round  her,  and  cried  and  sobbed,  and  she  cried  too  ;  and 
those  were  the  last  kind  words  I  got  for  ten  long  years  ;  and 
my  heart  all  withered  up,  and  felt  as  dry  as  ashes,  till  I  met 
you.  And  your  loving  me,  —  why,  it  was  almost  like  raising 
one  from  the  dead !  I  've  been  a  new  man  ever  since  !  And 
now,  Eliza,  I  '11  give  my  last  drop  of  blood,  but  they  shall  not 
take  you  from  me.  Whoever  gets  you  must  walk  over  my  dead 
body." 

"  O  Lord,  have  mercy  !  "  said  Eliza,  sobbing.  "  If  he  will 
only  let  us  get  out  of  this  country  together,  that  is  all  we  ask." 

"  Is  God  on  their  side  ? "  said  George,  speaking  less  to  his 
wife  than  pouring  out  his  own  bitter  thoughts.  "  Does  he  see 
all  they  do  ?  Why  does  he  let  such  things  happen  ?  And 
they  tell  us  that  the  Bible  is  on  their  side ;  certainly  all  the 
power  is.  They  are  rich,  and  healthy,  and  happy ;  they  are 
members  of  churches,  expecting  to  go  to  heaven  ;  and  they  get 
along  so  easy  in  the  world,  and  have  it  all  their  own  way; 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  213 

and  poor,  honest,  faithful  Christians  —  Christians  as  good  or 
better  than  they  —  are  lying  in  the  very  dust  under  their  feet. 
They  buy  'em  and  sell  'em,  and  make  trade  of  their  heart's 
blood,  and  groans  and  tears,  —  and  God  lets  them." 

"  Friend  George,"  said  Simeon,  from  the  kitchen,  "  listen  to 
this  Psalm  ;  it  may  do  thee  good." 

George  drew  his  seat  near  the  door,  and  Eliza,  wiping  her 
tears,  came  forward  also  to  listen,  while  Simeon  read  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

"  '  But  as  for  me,  my  feet  were  almost  gone  ;  my  steps  had 
wellnigh  slipped.  For  I  was  envious  of  the  foolish,  when  I 
saw  the  prosperity  of  the  wicked.  They  are  not  in  trouble 
like  other  men,  neither  are  they  plagued  like  other  men.  There 
fore,  pride  compasseth  them  as  a  chain  ;  violence  covereth  them 
as  a  garment.  Their  eyes  stand  out  with  fatness ;  they  have 
more  than  heart  could  wish.  They  are  corrupt,  and  speak 
wickedly  concerning  oppression  ;  they  speak  loftily.  Therefore 
his  people  return,  and  the  waters  of  a  full  cup  are  wrung  out 
to  them,  and  they  say,  How  doth  God  know  ?  and  is  there 
knowledge  in  the  Most  High  ?  '  Is  not  that  the  way  thee  feels, 
George  ?  " 

"  It  is  so,  indeed,"  said  George,  —  "  as  well  as  I  could  have 
written  it  myself." 

"  Then,  hear,"  said  Simeon  :  '"  When  I  thought  to  know  this, 
it  was  too  painful  for  me  until  I  went  unto  the  sanctuary  of 
God.  Then  understood  I  their  end.  Surely  thou  didst  set 
them  in  slippery  places,  thou  castedst  them  down  to  destruc 
tion.  As  a  dream  when  one  awaketh,  so,  O  Lord,  when  thou 
awakest,  thou  shalt  despise  their  image.  Nevertheless,  I  am 
continually  with  thee  ;  thou  hast  holden  me  by  my  right  hand. 
Thou  shalt  guide  me  by  thy  counsel,  and  afterwards  receive  me 
to  glory.  It  is  good  for  me  to  draw  near  unto  God.  I  have 
put  my  trust  in  the  Lord  God.'  " 

The  words  of  holy  trust,  breathed  by  the  friendly  old  man, 
stole  like  sacred  music  over  the  harassed  and  chafed  spirit  of 
George  ;  and  after  he  ceased,  he  sat  with  a  gentle  and  subdued 
expression  on  his  fine  features. 

"  If  this  world  were  all,  George,"  said  Simeon,  "  thee  might 
indeed,  ask,  Where  is  the  Lord  ?  But  it  is  often  those  who 


214  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN  ;   OR, 

have  least  of  all  in  this  life  whom  he  chooseth  for  the  king 
dom.  Put  thy  trust  in  him,  and,  no  matter  what  befalls  thee 
here,  he  will  make  all  right  hereafter." 

If  these  words  had  been  spoken  by  some  easy,  self-indulgent 
axhorter,  from  whose  mouth  they  might  have  come  merely  as 
pious  and  rhetorical  flourish,  proper  to  be  used  to  people  in 
distress,  perhaps  they  might  not  have  had  much  effect ;  but 
coming  from  one  who  daily  and  calmly  risked  fine  and  impris 
onment  for  the  cause  of  God  and  man,  they  had  a  weight  that 
could  not  but  be  felt,  and  both  the  poor,  desolate  fugitives 
found  calmness  and  strength  breathing  into  them  from  it. 

And  now  Rachel  took  Eliza's  hand  kindly,  and  led  the  way 
to  the  supper-table.  As  they  were  sitting  down,  a  light  tap 
sounded  at  the  door,  and  Ruth  entered. 

"I  just  ran  in,''  she  said,  "with  these  little  stockings  for  the 
boy,  —  three  pair,  nice,  warm  woollen  ones.  It  will  be  so  cold, 
thee  knows,  in  Canada.  Does  thee  keep  up  good  courage, 
Eliza  ?  "  she  added,  tripping  round  to  Eliza's  side  of  the  table, 
and  shaking  her  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  slipping  a  seed-cake 
into  Harry's  hand.  "  I  brought  a  little  parcel  of  these  for  him," 
she  said,  tugging  at  her  pocket  to  get  out  the  package.  "  Chil 
dren,  thee  knows,  will  always  be  eating." 

"  Oh,  thank  you ;  you  are  too  kind,"  said  Eliza. 

"  Come,  Ruth,  sit  down  to  supper,"  said  Rachel. 

"  I  could  n't,  any  way.  I  left  John  with  the  baby,  and  some 
biscuits  in  the  oven  ;  and  I  can't  stay  a  moment,  else  John  will 
burn  up  all  the  biscuits,  and  give  the  baby  all  the  sugar  in  the 
bowl.  That 's  the  way  he  does,"  said  the  little  Quakeress, 
laughing.  "  So,  good-by,  Eliza ;  good-by,  George ;  the  Lord 
grant  thee  a  safe  journey ; "  and,  with  a  few  tripping  steps, 
Ruth  was  out  of  the  apartment. 

A  little  while  after  supper,  a  large  covered  wagon  drew  up 
before  the  door ;  the  night  was  clear  starlight ;  and  Phineas 
jumped  briskly  down  from  his  seat  to  arrange  his  passengers. 
George  walked  out  of  the  door,  with  his  child  on  one  arm  and 
his  wife  on  the  other.  His  step  was  firm,  his  face  settled  and 
resolute.  Rachel  and  Simeon  came  out  after  them. 

"You  get  out,  a  moment,"  said  Phineas  to  those  inside,  "and 
let  me  fix  the  back  of  the  wagon,  there,  for  the  women-folks 
and  the  boy." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  215 

"  Here  are  the  two  buffaloes,"  said  Rachel.  "  Make  the  seats 
as  comfortable  as  may  be  ;  it  's  hard  riding  all  night." 

Jim  came  out  first,  and  carefully  assisted  out  his  old  mother, 
who  clung  to  his  arm,  and  looked  anxiously  about,  as  if  she  ex 
pected  the  pursuer  every  moment. 

"  Jim,  are  your  pistols  all  in  order  ?  "  said  George,  in  a  Iow5 
firm  voice. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Jim. 

"  And  you  've  no  doubt  what  you  shall  do,  if  they  come  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think  I  have  n't,"  said  Jim,  throwing  open  his 
broad  chest,  and  taking  a  deep  breath.  "  Do  you  think  I  II 
let  them  get  mother  again  ?  " 

During  this  brief  colloquy,  Eliza  had  been  taking  her  leave 
of  her  kind  friend,  Rachel,  and  was  handed  into  the  carriage  by 
Simeon,  and,  creeping  into  the  back  part  with  her  boy,  sat 
down  among  the  buffalo-skins.  The  old  woman  was  next  handed 
in  and  seated,  and  George  and  Jim  placed  on  a  rough  board 
seat  front  of  them,  and  Phineas  mounted  in  front. 

"  Farewell,  my  friends  !  "  said  Simeon,  from  without. 

"  God  bless  you!  "  answered  all  from  within. 

And  the  wagon  drove  off,  rattling  and  jolting  over  the  frozen 
road. 

There  was  no  opportunity  for  conversation,  on  account  of  the 
roughness  of  the  way  and  the  noise  of  the  wheels.  The  vehicle, 
therefore,  rumbled  on,  through  long,  dark  stretches  of  wood 
land,  —  over  wide,  dreary  plains,  —  up  hills,  and  down  valleys, 
—  and  on,  on,  on  they  jogged,  hour  after  hour.  The  child 
soon  fell  asleep,  and  lay  heavily  in  his  mother's  lap.  The  poor, 
frightened  old  woman  at  last  forgot  her  fears ;  and  even  Eliza, 
as  the  night  waned,  found  all  her  anxieties  insufficient  to  keep 
her  eyes  from  closing.  Phineas  seemed,  on  the  whole,  the 
briskest  of  the  company,  and  beguiled  his  long  drive  with 
whistling  certain  very  unquaker-like  songs,  as  he  went  on. 

But  about  three  o'clock  George's  ear  caught  the  hasty  and 
decided  click  of  a  horse's  hoof  coming  behind  them  at  some 
distance,  and  jogged  Phineas  by  the  elbow.  Phineas  pulled  up 
his  horses,  and  listened. 

"That  must  be  Michael,"  he  said;  "I  think  I  know  the 
sound  of  his  gallop ;  "  and  he  rose  up  and  stretched  his  head 
anxiously  back  over  the  road. 


216  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

A  man  riding  in  hot  haste  was  now  dimly  descried  at  the  top 
of  a  distant  hill. 

"  There  he  is:  I  do  believe  !  "  said  Phineas.  George  and  Jim 
both  sprang  out  of  th*  wagon,  before  they  knew  what  they  were 
doing.  All  stood  intensely  silent,  with  their  faces  turned  to 
wards  the  expected  messenger.  On  he  came.  Now  he  went 
down  into  a  valley,  where  they  could  not  see  him  ;  but  they 
heard  the  sharp,  hasty  tramp,  rising  nearer  and  nearer ;  at  last 
they  saw  him  emerge  on  the  top  of  an  eminence,  within  hail. 

"  Yes,  that 's  Michael !  "  said  Phineas  ;  and,  raising  his  voice, 
"  Halloa,  there,  Michael !  " 

"  Phineas  !  is  that  thee  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  what  news  —  they  coming?  " 

"  Right  on  behind,  eight  or  ten  of  them,  hot  with  brandy, 
swearing  and  foaming  like  so  many  wolves." 

And,  just  as  he  spoke,  a  breeze  brought  the  faint  sound  of 
galloping  horsemen  towards  them. 

"  In  with  you,  —  quick,  boys,  in  !  "  said  Phineas.  "  If  you 
must  fight,  wait  till  I  get  you  a  piece  ahead."  And,  with  the 
word,  both  jumped  in,  and  Phineas  lashed  the  horses  to  a  run, 
the  horseman  keeping  close  beside  them.  The  wagon  rattled, 
jumped,  almost  flew,  over  the  frozen  ground ;  but  plainer,  and 
still  plainer,  came  the  noise  of  pursuing  horsemen  behind.  The 
women  heard  it,  and,  looking  anxiously  out,  saw,  far  in  the  rear, 
on  the  brow  of  a  distant  hill,  a  party  of  men  looming  up  against 
the  red-streaked  sky  of  early  dawn.  Another  hill,  and  their 
pursuers  had  evidently  caught  sight  of  their  wagon,  whose  white 
cloth-covered  top  made  it  conspicuous  at  some  distance,  and  a 
loud  yell  of  brutal  triumph  came  forward  on  the  wind.  Eliza 
sickened,  and  strained  her  child  closer  to  her  bosom  ;  the  old 
woman  prayed  and  groaned,  and  George  and  Jim  clenched 
their  pistols  with  the  grasp  of  despair.  The  pursuers  gained  on 
them  fast ;  the  carriage  made  a  sudden  turn,  and  brought  them 
near  a  ledge  of  a  steep  overhanging  rock,  that  rose  in  an  isolated 
ridge  or  clump  in  a  large  lot,  which  was,  all  around  it,  quite 
clear  and  smooth.  This  isolated  pile,  or  range  of  rocks,  rose 
up  black  and  heavy  against  the  brightening  sky,  and  seemed  to 
promise  shelter  and  concealment.  It  was  a  place  well  known 
tc  Phineas,  who  had  been  familiar  with  the  spot  in  his  hunting 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  217 

days  ;  and  it  was  to  gain  this  point  he  had  been  racing  his 
horses. 

"  Now  for  it !  "  said  he,  suddenly  checking  his  horses,  and 
springing  from  his  seat  to  the  ground.  "  Out  with  you,  in  a 
twinkling,  every  one,  and  up  into  these  rocks  with  me.  Michael, 
thee  tie  thy  horse  to  the  wagon,  and  drive  ahead  to  Amariah's, 
and  get  him  and  his  boys  to  come  back  and  talk  to  these 
fellows." 

In  a  twinkling  they  were  all  out  of  the  carriage. 

"  There,"  said  Phineas,  catching  up  Harry,  "  you,  each  of 
you,  see  to  the  women  ;  and  run,  now,  if  you  ever  did  run  !  " 

There  needed  no  exhortation.  Quicker  than  we  can  say  it, 
the  whole  party  were  over  the  fence,  making  with  all  speed 
for  the  rocks,  while  Michael,  throwing  himself  from  his  horse, 
and  fastening  the  bridle  to  the  wagon,  began  driving  it  rapidly 
away. 

61  Come  ahead,"  said  Phineas,  as  they  reached  the  rocks,  and 
saw,  in  the  mingled  starlight  and  dawn,  the  traces  of  a  rude  but 
plainly  marked  footpath  leading  up  among  them  ;  "  this  is  one 
of  our  old  hunting-dens.  Come  up  !  " 

Phineas  went  before,  springing  up  the  rocks  like  a  goat,  with 
the  boy  in  his  arms.  Jim  came  second,  bearing  his  trembling 
old  mother  over  his  shoulder,  and  George  and  Eliza  brought  up 
the  rear.  The  party  of  horsemen  came  up  to  the  fence,  and, 
with  mingled  shouts  and  oaths,  were  dismounting,  to  prepare  to 
follow  them.  A  few  moments'  scrambling  brought  them  to  the 
top  of  the  ledge ;  the  path  then  passed  between  a  narrow  defile, 
where  only  one  could  walk  at  a  time,  till  suddenly  they  came  to 
a  rift  or  chasm  more  than  a  yard  in  breadth,  and  beyond  which 
lay  a  pile  of  rocks,  separate  from  the  rest  of  the  ledge,  standing 
full  thirty  feet  high,  with  its  sides  steep  and  perpendicular  as 
those  of  a  castle.  Phineas  easily  leaped  the  chasm,  and  set 
down  the  boy  on  a  smooth,  flat  platform  of  crisp  white  moss, 
that  covered  the  top  of  the  rock. 

"  Over  with  you  !  "  he  called  ;  u  spring,  now,  once,  for  your 
lives !  "  said  he,  as  one  after  another  sprang  across.  Several 
fragments  of  loose  stone  formed  a  kind  of  breastwork,  which 
sheltered  their  position  from  the  observation  of  those  below. 

"  Well,  here  we  all  are,"  said  Phineas,  peeping  over  the  stone 


218  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

breastwork  to  watch  the  assailants,  who  were  coming  tumult 
uously  up  under  the  rocks.  "  Let  'em  get  us,  if  they  can. 
Whoever  comes  here  has  to  walk  single  file  between  those  two 
rocks,  in  fair  range  of  your  pistols,  boys,  d'  ye  see  ?  " 

"  I  do  see,"  said  George  ;  "  and  now,  as  this  matter  is  ours, 
let  us  take  all  the  risk,  and  do  all  the  fighting." 

"  Thee 's  quite  welcome  to  do  the  fighting,  George,"  said 
Phineas,  chewing  some  checkerberry-leaves  as  he  spoke ;  "  but 
I  may  have  the  fun  of  looking  on,  I  suppose.  But  see,  these 
fellows  are  kinder  debating  down  there,  and  looking  up,  like 
hens  when  they  are  going  to  fly  up  on  to  the  roost.  Had  n't 
thee  better  give  'em  a  word  of  advice,  before  they  come  up,  just 
to  tell  'em  handsomely  they  '11  be  shot  if  they  do  ?  " 

The  party  beneath,  now  more  apparent  in  the  light  of  the 
dawn,  consisted  of  our  old  acquaintances,  Tom  Loker  and 
Marks,  with  two  constables,  and  a  posse  consisting  of  such 
rowdies  at  the  last  tavern  as  could  be  engaged  by  a  little  brandy 
to  go  and  help  the  fun  of  trapping  a  set  of  niggers. 

"  Well,  Tom,  yer  coons  are  farly  treed,"  said  one. 

"  Yes,  I  see  'ern  go  up  right  here,"  said  Tom  ;  "  and  here  's 
a  path.  I  'm  for  going  right  up.  They  can't  jump  down  in  a 
hurry,  and  it  won't  take  long  to  ferret  'em  out." 

"  But,  Tom,  they  migvht  fire  at  us  from  behind  the  rocks," 
said  Marks.  "  That  would  be  ugly,  you  know." 

"  Ugh  !  "  said  Tom,  with  a  sneer.  "  Always  for  saving 
your  skin,  Marks !  No  danger !  niggers  are  too  plaguy 
scared !  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  n't  save  my  skin,"  said  Marks. 
•*  It 's  the  best  I  've  got ;  and  niggers  do  fight  like  the  devil, 
sometimes." 

At  this  moment,  George  appeared  on  the  top  of  a  rock 
above  them,  and,  speaking  in  a  calm,  clear  voice,  said,  — 

"  Gentlemen,  who  are  you,  down  there,  and  what  do  you 
want  ?  " 

"  We  want  a  party  of  runaway  niggers,"  said  Tom  Loker. 
w  One  George  Harris,  and  Eliza  Harris,  and  their  son,  and  Jim 
Selden,  and  an  old  woman.  We  've  got  the  officers  here,  and 
a  warrant  to  take  'em ;  and  we  're  going  to  have  'em,  too, 
D'  ye  hear  ?  An't  you  George  Harris,  that  belongs  to  Mr 
Harris,  of  Shelby  County,  Kentucky  ?  " 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  219 

"  I  am  George  Harris.  A  Mr.  Harris,  of  Kentucky,  did  call 
me  his  property.  But  now  I  'in  a  free  man,  standing  on  God's 
free  soil ;  and  my  wife  and  my  child  I  claim  as  mine.  Jim 
and  his  mother  are  here.  We  have  arms  to  defend  ourselves, 
and  we  mean  to  do  it.  You  can  come  up,  if  you  like  ;  but  the 
first  one  of  you  that  comes  within  the  range  of  our  bullets  is  a 
dead  man,  and  the  next,  and  the  next ;  and  so  on  till  the  last." 

"  Oh,  come  !  come !  "  said  a  short,  puffy  man,  stepping  for 
ward,  and  blowing  his  nose  as  he  did  so.  "  Young  man,  this 
an't  no  kind  of  talk  at  all  for  you.  You  see,  we  're  officers  of 
justice.  We  've  got  the  law  on  our  side,  and  the  power,  and  so 
forth  ;  so  you  'd  better  give  up  peaceably,  you  see  ;  for  you  '11 
certainly  have  to  give  up,  at  last." 

"  I  know  very  well  that  you  've  got  the  law  on  your  side, 
and  the  power,"  said  George,  bitterly.  "You  mean  to  take 
my  wife  to  sell  in  New  Orleans,  and  put  my  boy  like  a  calf  in  a 
trader's  pen,  and  send  Jim's  old  mother  to  the  brute  that 
whipped  and  abused  her  before,  because  he  could  n't  abuse 
her  son.  You  want  to  send  Jim  and  me  back  to  be  whipped 
and  tortured,  and  ground  down  under  the  heels  of  them  that 
you  call  masters  ;  and  your  laws  will  bear  you  out  in  it,  — 
more  shame  for  you  and  them  !  But  you  have  n't  got  us.  We 
don't  own  your  laws  ;  we  don't  own  your  country  ;  we  stand 
here  as  free,  under  God's  sky,  as  you  are  ;  and,  by  the  great 
God  that  made  us,  we  '11  fight  for  our  liberty  till  we  die." 

George  stood  out  in  fair  sight,  on  the  top  of  the  rock,  as  he 
made  his  declaration  of  independence  ;  the  glow  of  dawn  gave 
a  flush  to  his  swarthy  cheek,  and  bitter  indignation  and  despair 
gave  fire  to  his  dark  eye  ;  and,  as  if  appealing  from  man  to  the 
justice  of  God,  he  raised  his  hand  to  heaven  as  he  spoke. 

If  it  had  been  only  a  Hungarian  youth,  now,  bravely  defend 
ing  in  some  mountain  fastness  the  retreat  of  fugitives  escaping 
from  Austria  into  America,  this  would  have  been  sublime  hero 
ism  ;  but  as  it  was  a  youth  of  African  descent,  defending  the 
retreat  of  fugitives  through  America  into  Canada,  of  course  we 
are  too  well  instructed  and  patriotic  to  see  any  heroism  in  it ; 
and  if  any  of  our  readers  do,  they  must  do  it  on  their  own 
private  responsibility.  When  despairing  Hungarian  fugitives 
make  their  way,  against  all  the  search-warrants  and  authorities 


220  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

of  their  lawful  government,  to  America,  press  and  political  cab 
inet  ring  with  applause  and  welcome.  When  despairing  African 
fugitives  do  the  same  thing,  —  it  is  —  what  is  it  ? 

Be  it  as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that  the  attitude,  eye,  voice, 
manner,  of  the  speaker,  for  a  moment  struck  the  party  below 
to  silence.  There  is  something  in  boldness  and  determination 
that  for  a  time  hushes  even  the  rudest  nature.  Marks  was  the 
only  one  who  remained  wholly  untouched.  He  was  deliberately 
cocking  his  pistol,  and,  in  the  momentary  silence  that  followed 
George's  speech,  he  fired  at  him. 

"  Ye  see  ye  get  jist  as  much  for  him  dead  as  alive  in  Ken 
tucky,"  he  said,  coolly,  as  he  wiped  his  pistol  on  his  coat-sleeve. 

George  sprang  backward,  —  Eliza  uttered  a  shriek,  —  the 
ball  had  passed  close  to  his  hair,  had  nearly  grazed  the  cheek  of 
his  wife,  and  struck  in  the  tree  above. 

"  It 's  nothing,  Eliza,"  said  George,  quickly. 

"  Thee  'd  better  keep  out  of  sight,  with  thy  speechifying," 
said  Phineas  ;  "  they  're  mean  scamps." 

"  Now,  Jim,"  said  George  "  look  that  your  pistols  are  all 
right,  and  watch  that  pass  with  me.  The  first  man  that  shows 
himself  I  fire  at ;  you  take  the  second,  and  so  on.  It  won't  do/ 
you  know,  to  waste  two  shots  on  one." 

"  But  what  if  you  don't  hit  ?  " 

"  I  shall  hit,"  said  George,  coolly. 

"  Good !  now,  there  's  stuff  in  that  fellow,"  muttered  Phineas, 
between  his  teeth. 

The  party  below,  after  Marks  had  fired,  stood,  for  a  moment, 
rather  undecided. 

"  I  think  you  must  have  hit  some  on  'em,"  said  one  of  the 
men.  "  I  heard  a  squeal !  " 

"  I  'm  going  right  up  for  one,"  said  Tom.  "  I  never  was 
afraid  of  niggers,  and  I  an't  going  to  be  now.  Who  goes  after  ?  " 
he  said,  springing  up  the  rocks. 

George  heard  the  words  distinctly.  He  drew  up  his  pistol, 
examined  it,  pointed  it  towards  that  point  in  the  defile  where  the 
first  man  would  appear. 

One  of  the  most  courageous  of  the  party  followed  Tom,  and, 
the  way  being  thus  made,  the  whole  party  began  pushing  up  the 
rock,  —  the  hindermost  pushing  the  front  ones  faster  than  they 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  221 

would  have  gone  of  themselves.  On  they  came,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  the  burly  form  of  Tom  appeared  in  sight,  almost  at  the 
verge  of  the  chasm. 

George  fired,  —  the  shot  entered  his  side  —  but,  though 
wounded,  he  would  not  retreat,  but,  with  a  yell  like  that  of  a 
mad  bull,  he  was  leaping  right  across  the  chasm  into  the  party. 

"  Friend,"  said  Phineas,  suddenly  stepping  to  the  front,  and 
meeting  him  with  a  push  from  his  long  arms,  "  thee  is  n't  wanted 
here." 

Down  he  fell  into  the  chasm,  crackling  down  among  trees, 
bushes,  logs,  loose  stones,  till  he  lay,  bruised  and  groaning,  thirty 
feet  below.  The  fall  might  have  killed  him,  had  it  not  been 
broken  and  moderated  by  his  clothes  catching  in  the  branches 
of  a  large  tree  ;  but  he  came  down  with  some  force,  however,  — 
more  than  was  at  all  agreeable  or  convenient. 

"  Lord  help  us,  they  are  perfect  devils  !  "  said  Marks,  heading 
the  retreat  down  the  rocks  with  much  more  of  a  will  than  he  had 
joined  the  ascent,  while  all  the  party  came  tumbling  precipi 
tately  after  him,  —  the  fat  constable,  in  particular,  blowing  and 
puffing  in  a  very  energetic  manner. 

"  I  say,  fellers,"  said  Marks,  "  you  jist  go  round  and  pick  up 
Tom,  there,  while  I  run  and  get  on  to  my  horse,  to  go  back  for 
help,  —  that 's  you ;  "  and,  without  minding  the  hootings  and 
jeers  of  his  company,  Marks  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  was 
soon  seen  galloping  away. 

"  Was  ever  such  a  sneaking  varmint  ?  "  said  one  of  the  men ; 
"  to  come  on  his  business,  and^Jie  clear  out  and  leave  us  this  yer 
way !  " 

"  Well,  we  must  pick  up  that  feller,"  said  another.  "  Cuss  me 
if  I  much  care  whether  he  is  dead  or  alive." 

The  men,  led  by  the  groans  of  Tom,  scrambled  and  crackled 
through  stumps,  logs,  and  bushes,  to  where  that  hero  lay  groan 
ing  and  swearing,  with  alternate  vehemence. 

"  Ye  keep  it  a  going  pretty  loud,  Tom,"  said  one.  "  Ye  much 
hurt  ?  " 

"  Don't  know.  Get  me  up,  can't  ye  ?  Blast  that  infernal 
Quaker  !  If  it  had  n't  been  for  him,  I  'd  a  pitched  some  on  'em 
down  here,  to  see  how  they  liked  it." 

With  much  labor  and  groaning,  the  fallen  hero  was  assisted 


222  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

to  rise  ;  and,  with  one  holding  him  up  under  each  shoulder,  they 
got  him  as  far  as  the  horses. 

"  If  you  could  only  get  me  a  mile  back  to  that  ar  tavern. 
Give  me  a  handkerchief  or  something,  to  stuff  into  this  place, 
and  stop  this  infernal  bleeding." 

George  looked  over  the  rocks,  and  saw  them  trying  to  lift  the 
burly  form  of  Tom  into  the  saddle.  After  two  or  three  in 
effectual  attempts,  he  reeled,  and  fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  he  is  n't  killed !  "  said  Eliza,  who,  with  all  the 
party,  stood  watching  the  proceeding. 

u  Why  not  ?  "  said  Phineas  ;  "  serves  him  right." 

"  Because,  after  death  comes  the  judgment,"  said  Eliza. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  who  had  been  groaning  and 
praying,  in  her  Methodist  fashion,  during  all  the  encounter,  "  it 's 
an  awful  case  for  the  poor  crittur's  soul." 

"  On  my  word,  they  're  leaving  him,  I  do  believe,"  said 
Phineas. 

It  was  true ;  for  after  some  appearance  of  irresolution  and 
consultation,  the  whole  party  got  on  their  horses  and  rode  away. 
When  they  were  quite  out  of  sight,  Phineas  began  to  bestir  him 
self. 

"  Well,  we  must  go  down  and  walk  a  piece,"  he  said.  "  I 
told  Michael  to  go  forward  and  bring  help,  and  be  along  back 
here  with  the  wagon ;  but  we  shall  have  to  walk  a  piece  along 
the  road,  I  reckon,  to  meet  them.  The  Lord  grant  he  be  along 
soon  !  It 's  early  in  the  day  ;  there  won't  be  much  travel  afoot 
yet  awhile ;  we  an't  much  more  than  two  miles  from  our  stop 
ping-place.  If  the  road  had  n't  been  so  rough  last  night,  we 
could  have  outrun  'em  entirely." 

As  the  party  neared  the  fence,  they  discovered  in  the  distance, 
along  the  road,  their  own  wagon  coming  back,  accompanied  by 
some  men  on  horseback. 

"  Well,  now,  there  's  Michael,  and  Stephen,  and  Amariah," 
exclaimed  Phineas,  joyfully.  "  Now  we  are  made,  —  as  safe 
as  if  we  'd  got  there." 

"  Well,  do  stop,  then,"  said  Eliza,  "  and  do  something  for  that 
poor  man  ;  he  's  groaning  dreadfully." 

"  It  would  be  no  more  than  Christian,"  said  George ;  "  let  's 
take  him  up  and  carry  him  on." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  223 

"And  doctor  him  up  among  the  Quakers!"  said  Phineas; 
"  pretty  well,  that !  Well,  I  don't  care  if  we  do.  Here,  let 's 
have  a  look  at  him ; "  and  Phineas,  who,  in  the  course  of  his 
hunting  and  backwoods  life,  had  acquired  some  rude  experience 
of  surgery,  kneeled  down  by  the  wounded  man,  and  began  a 
careful  examination  of  his  condition. 

"  Marks,"  said  Tom,  feebly,  "  is  that  you,  Marks  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  reckon  't  an't,  friend,"  said  Phineas.  "Much  Marks 
cares  for  thee,  if  his  own  skin  's  safe.  He  's  off,  long  ago." 

"  I  believe  I  'm  done  for,"  said  Tom.  "  The  cussed  sneaking 
dog,  to  leave  me  to  die  alone !  My  poor  old  mother  always 
told  me  't  would  be  so." 

"  La  sakes  !  jist  hear  the  poor  crittur.  He  's  got  a  mammy, 
now,"  said  the  old  negress.  "  I  can't  help  kinder  pityin'  on 
him." 

"  Softly,  softly ;  don't  thee  snap  and  snarl,  friend,"  said 
Phineas,  as  Tom  winced  and  pushed  his  hand  away.  "  Thee 
has  no  chance,  unless  I  stop  the  bleeding."  And  Phineas 
busied  himself  with  making  some  off-hand  surgical  arrange- 
ments  with  his  own  pocket-handkerchief,  and  such  as  could  be 
mustered  in  the  company. 

"  You  pushed  me  down  there,"  said  Tom,  faintly. 

"  Well,  if  I  had  n't,  thee  would  have  pushed  us  down,  thee 
sees,"  said  Phineas,  as  he  stooped  to  apply  his  bandage. 
"  There,  there,  —  let  me  fix  this  bandage.  We  mean  well  to 
thee  ;  we  bear  no  malice.  Thee  shall  be  taken  to  a  house  where 
they'll  nurse  thee  first-rate,  —  as  well  as  thy  own  mother 
could." 

Tom  groaned,  and  shut  his  eyes.  In  men  of  his  class,  vigor 
and  resolution  are  entirely  a  physical  matter,  and  ooze  out  with 
the  flowing  of  the  blood ;  and  the  gigantic  fellow  really  looked 
piteous  in  his  helplessness. 

The  other  party  now  came  up.  The  seats  were  taken  out  of 
the  wagon.  The  buffalo-skins,  doubled  in  fours,  were  spread  all 
along  one  side,  and  four  men,  with  great  difficulty,  lifted  the 
heavy  form  of  Tom  into  it.  Before  he  was  gotten  in,  he  fainted 
entirely.  The  old  negress,  in  the  abundance  of  her  compas 
sion,  sat  down  on  the  bottom,  and  took  his  head  in  her  lap. 
Eliza,  George,  and  Jim  bestowed  themselves,  as  well  as  they 


224  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

could,  in  the  remaining  space,  and  the  whole  party  set  for 
ward. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?  "  said  George,  who  sat  by 
Phineas,  in  front. 

"  Well,  it 's  only  a  pretty  deep  flesh-wound  ;  but,  then,  tum 
bling  and  scratching  down  that  place  did  n't  help  him  much.  It 
has  bled  pretty  freely,  —  pretty  much  dreaned  him  out,  courage 
and  all,  —  but  he  '11  get  over  it,  and  may  be  learn  a  thing  or 
two  by  it." 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  George.  "  It  would  al 
ways  be  a  heavy  thought  to  me,  if  I  'd  caused  his  death,  even 
in  a  just  cause." 

"  Yes,"  said  Phineas,  "  killing  is  an  ugly  operation,  any  way 
they  '11  fix  it,  —  man  or  beast.  I  've  been  a  great  hunter,  in 
my  day,  and  I  tell  thee  I  've  seen  a  buck  that  was  shot  down, 
and  a  dying,  look  that  way  on  a  feller  with  his  eye,  that  it  reely 
most  made  a  teller  feel  wicked  for  killing  on  him ;  and  human 
creatures  is  a  more  serious  consideration  yet,  bein',  as  thy  wife 
says,  that  the  judgment  comes  to  'em  after  death.  So  I  don't 
know  as  our  people's  notions  on  these  matters  is  too  strict ;  and, 
considerin'  how  I  was  raised,  I  fell  in  with  them  pretty  consid 
erably." 

"  What  shall  you  do  with  this  poor  fellow  ?  "  said  George. 

"  Oh,  carry  him  along  to  Amariah's.  There  's  old  Grandmam 
Stephens  there,  —  Dorcas,  they  call  her,  —  she  's  most  an 
amazin'  nurse.  She  takes  to  nursing  real  natural,  and  an't 
never  better  suited  than  when  she  gets  a  sick  body  to  tend. 
We  may  reckon  on  turning  him  over  to  her  for  a  fortnight  or 

80." 

A  ride  of  about  an  hour  more  brought  the  party  to  a  neat 
farm-house,  where  the  weary  travellers  were  received  to  an 
abundant  breakfast.  Tom  Loker  was  soon  carefully  deposited 
in  a  much  cleaner  and  softer  bed  than  he  had  ever  been  in  the 
habit  of  occupying.  His  wound  was  carefully  dressed  and  ban 
daged,  and  he  lay  languidly  opening  and  shutting  his  eyes  on 
the  white  window-curtains  and  gently  gliding  figures  of  his  sick 
room,  like  a  weary  child.  And  here,  for  the  present,  we  shall 
take  our  leave  of  one  party. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  225 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MISS  OPHELIA'S  EXPERIENCES  AND  OPINIONS. 

OUR  friend  Tom,  in  his  own  simple  musings,  often  compared 
his  more  fortunate  lot,  in  the  bondage  into  which  he  was  cast, 
with  that  of  Joseph  in  Egypt ;  and,  in  fact,  as  time  went  on, 
and  he  developed  more  and  more  under  the  eye  of  his  master, 
the  strength  of  the  parallel  increased. 

St.  Clare  was  indolent  and  careless  of  money.  Hitherto  the 
providing  and  marketing  had  been  principally  done  by  Adolph, 
who  was,  to  the  full,  as  careless  and  extravagant  as  his  master  ; 
and,  between  them  both,  they  had  carried  on  the  dispersing 
process  with  great  alacrity.  Accustomed,  for  many  years,  to 
regard  his  master's  property  as  his  own  care,  Tom  saw,  with  an 
uneasiness  he  could  scarcely  repress,  the  wasteful  expenditure 
of  the  establishment  ;  and,  in  the  quiet,  indirect  way  which  his 
class  often  acquire,  would  sometimes  make  his  own  suggestions. 

St.  Clare  at  first  employed  him  occasionally  ;  but,  struck  with 
his  soundness  of  mind  and  good  business  capacity,  he  confided 
in  him  more  and  more,  till  gradually  all  the  marketing  and  pro 
viding  for  the  family  were  intrusted  to  him. 

"  No,  no,  Adolph,"  he  said,  one  day,  as  Adolph  was  depre 
cating  the  passing  of  power  out  of  his  hands ;  "  let  Tom  alone. 
You  only  understand  what  you  want ;  Tom  understands  cost 
and  come  to ;  and  there  may  be  some  end  to  money,  by  and  by, 
if  we  don't  let  somebody  do  that." 

Trusted  to  an  unlimited  extent  by  a  careless  master,  who 
handed  him  a  bill  without  looking  at  it,  and  pocketed  the 
change  without  counting  it,  Tern  had  every  facility  and  tempta 
tion  to  dishonesty ;  and  nothing  but  an  impregnable  simplicity 
of  nature,  strengthened  by  Christian  faith,  could  have  kept  him 
from  it.  But,  to  that  nature,  the  very  unbounded  trust  reposed 
in  him  was  bond  and  seal  for  the  most  scrupulous  accuracy. 
15 


UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;     OR, 

With  Adolph  the  case  had  been  different.  Thoughtless  and 
self-indulgent,  and  unrestrained  by  a  master  who  found  it  easier 
to  indulge  than  to  reg  ;late,  he  had  fallen  into  an  absolute  con 
fusion  as  to  meum  and  tuum  with  regard  to  himself  and  his 
master,  which  sometimes  troubled  even  St.  Clare.  His  own 
good  sense  taught  him  that  such  a  training  of  his  servants  was 
unjust  and  dangerous.  A  sort  of  chronic  remorse  went  with 
him  everywhere,  although  not  strong  enough  to  make  any  de 
cided  change  in  his  course ;  and  this  very  remorse  reacted  again 
into  indulgence.  He  passed  lightly  over  the  most  serious  faults, 
because  he  told  himself  that,  if  he  had  done  his  part,  his  de 
pendants  had  not  fallen  into  them. 

Tom  regarded  his  gay,  airy,  handsome  young  master  with  an 
odd  mixture  of  fealty,  reverence,  and  fatherly  solicitude.  That 
he  never  read  the  Bible ;  never  went  to  church  ;  that  he  jested 
and  made  free  with  any  and  everything  that  came  in  the  way 
of  his  wit ;  that  he  spent  his  Sunday  evenings  at  the  opera  or 
theatre ;  that  he  went  to  wine  parties,  and  clubs,  and  suppers, 
of tener  than  was  at  all  expedient,  —  were  all  things  that  Tom 
could  see  as  plainly  as  anybody,  and  on  which  he  based  a  con 
viction  that  "  Mas'r  was  n't  a  Christian ;  "  —  a  conviction,  how 
ever,  which  he  would  have  been  very  slow  to  express  to  any  one 
else,  but  on  which  he  founded  many  prayers,  in  his  own  simple 
fashion,  when  he  was  by  himself  in  his  little  dormitory.  Not 
that  Tom  had  not  his  own  way  of  speaking  his  mind  occasion 
ally,  with  something  of  the  tact  often  observable  in  his  class  ; 
as,  for  example,  the  very  day  after  the  Sabbath  we  have  de 
scribed,  St.  Clare  was  invited  out  to  a  convivial  party  of  choice 
spirits,  and  was  helped  home,  between  one  and  two  o'clock  at 
night,  in  a  condition  when  the  physical  had  decidedly  attained 
the  upper  hand  of  the  intellectual.  Tom  and  Adolph  assisted 
to  get  him  composed  for  the  night,  the  latter  in  high  spirits,  evi 
dently  regarding  the  matter  as  a  good  joke,  and  laughing  heart 
ily  at  the  rusticity  of  Tom's  horror,  who  really  was  simple 
enough  to  lie  awake  most  of  the  rest  of  the  night,  praying  for 
his  young  master. 

"  Well,  Tom,  what  are  you  waiting  for?  "  said  St.  Clare,  the 
next  day,  as  he  sat  in  his  library  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers, 
St.  Clare  had  just  been  intrusting  Tom  with  some  money,  and 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  227 

various  commissions.  "  Is  n't  all  right  there,  Tom  ?  "  he  added, 
as  Tom  still  stood  waiting. 

"I  'm  'fraid  not,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  with  a  grave  face. 

St.  Clare  laid  down  his  paper,  and  set  down  his  coffee-cup, 
and  looked  at  Tom. 

"  Why,  Tom,  what 's  the  case  ?  You  look  as  solemn  as  a 
coffin." 

"  I  feel  very  bad,  Mas'r.  I  allays  have  thought  that  Mas'r 
would  be  good  to  everybody." 

"  Well,  Tom,  have  n't  I  been  ?  Come,  now,  what  do  you 
want  ?  There 's  something  you  have  n't  got,  I  suppose,  and 
this  is  the  preface." 

"  Mas'r  allays  been  good  to  me.  I  have  n't  nothing  to  com 
plain  of,  on  that  head.  But  there  is  one  that  Mas'r  is  n't  good 
to." 

"  Why,  Tom,  what 's  got  into  you  ?  Speak  out ;  what  do 
you  mean !  " 

"  Last  night,  between  one  and  two,  I  thought  so.  I  studied 
upon  the  matter  then.  Mas'r  isn't  good  to  himself" 

Tom  said  this  with  his  back  to  his  master,  and  his  hand  on 
the  door-knob.  St.  Clare  felt  his  face  flush  crimson,  but  he 
laughed. 

"  Oh,  that 's  all.  is  it  ?  "  he  said,  gayly. 

"  All !  "  said  Tom,  turning  suddenly  round  and  falling  on  his 
knees.  "  Oh,  my  dear  young  Mas'r  !  I  'm  'fraid  it  will  be  loss 
of  all  —  all — body  and  soul.  The  good  Book  says,  'it  biteth 
like  a  serpent  and  stingeth  like  an  adder  ! '  my  dear  Mas'r  !  " 

Tom's  voice  choked,  and  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

"  You  poor,  silly  fool !  "  said  St.  Clare,  with  tears  in  his  own 
eyes.  "  Get  up,  Tom.  I  'm  not  worth  crying  over." 

But  Tom  would  n't  rise,  and  looked  imploring. 

"  Well,  I  won't  go  to  any  more  of  their  cursed  nonsense, 
Tom,"  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  on  my  honor,  I  won't.  I  don't  know 
why  I  have  n't  stopped  long  ago.  I  've  always  despised  it,  and 
myself  for  it,  —  so  now,  Tom,  wipe  up  your  eyes,  and  go  about 
your  errands.  Come,  come,"  he  added,  "  no  blessings.  I  'm 
not  so  wonderfully  good,  now,"  he  said,  as  he  gently  pushed 
Tom  to  the  door.  "  There,  I  '11  pledge  my  honor  to  you,  Tom, 
you  don't  see  me  so  again,"  he  said  ;  and  Tom  went  off,  wiping 
his  eyes,  with  great  satisfaction. 


228  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  I  '11  keep  my  faith  with  him,  too,"  said  St.  Clare,  as  he 
closed  the  door. 

And  St.  Clare  did  so,  —  for  gross  sensualism,  in  any  form, 
was  not  the  peculiar  temptation  of  his  nature. 

But,  all  this  time,  who  shall  detail  the  tribulations  manifold  of 
our  friend  Miss  Ophelia,  who  had  begun  the  labors  of  a  southern 
housekeeper  ? 

There  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world  in  the  servants  of 
southern  establishments,  according  to  the  character  and  capacity 
of  the  mistresses  who  have  brought  them  up. 

South  as  well  as  north,  there  are  women  who  have  an  extraor 
dinary  talent  for  command,  and  tact  in  educating.  Such  are 
enabled,  with  apparent  ease,  and  without  severity,  to  subject  to 
their  will,  and  bring  into  harmonious  and  systematic  order,  the 
various  members  of  their  small  estate,  —  to  regulate  their  pecu 
liarities,  and  so  balance  and  compensate  the  deficiencies  of  one  by 
the  excess  of  another,  as  to  produce  a  harmonious  and  orderly 
system. 

Such  a  housekeeper  was  Mrs.  Shelby,  whom  we  have  already 
described ;  and  such  our  readers  may  remember  to  have  met 
with.  If  they  are  not  common  at  the  south,  it  is  because  they 
are  not  common  in  the  world.  They  are  to  be  found  there  as 
often  as  anywhere  ;  and,  when  existing,  find  in  that  peculiar 
state  of  society  a  brilliant  opportunity  to  exhibit  their  domestic 
talent. 

Such  a  housekeeper  Marie  St.  Clare  was  not,  nor  her  mother 
before  her.  Indolent  and  childish,  unsystematic  and  improvi 
dent,  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  servants  trained  under  her 
care  should  not  be  so  likewise  ;  and  she  had  very  justly  de 
scribed  to  Miss  Ophelia  the  state  of  confusion  she  would  find 
in  the  family,  though  she  had  not  ascribed  it  to  the  proper 
cause. 

The  first  morning  of  her  regency,  Miss  Ophelia  was  up  at 
four  o'clock  ;  and  having  attended  to  all  the  adjustments  of  her 
own  chamber,  as  she  had  done  ever  since  she  came  there,  to  the 
great  amazement  of  the  chambermaid,  she  prepared  for  a  vigo 
rous  onslaught  on  the  cupboards  and  closets  of  the  establishment 
of  which  she  had  the  keys. 

The   store-room,    the   linen  -  presses,   the    china-closet,   the 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  229 

kitchen  and  cellar,  that  day,  all  went  under  an  awful  review. 
Hidden  things  of  darkness  were  brought  to  light  to  an  extent 
that  alarmed  all  the  principalities  and  powers  of  kitchen  and 
chamber,  and  caused  many  wonderings  and  murmurings  about 
"  dese  yer  northern  ladies  "  from  the  domestic  cabinet. 

Old  Dinah,  the  head  cook,  and  principal  of  all  rule  and  au 
thority  in  the  kitchen  department,  was  filled  with  wrath  at  what 
she  considered  an  invasion  of  privilege.  No  feudal  baron  in 
Magna  Ckarta  times  could  have  more  thoroughly  resented 
some  incursion  of  the  crown. 

Dinah  was  a  character  in  her  own  way,  and  it  would  be  in« 
justice  to  her  memory  not  to  give  the  reader  a  little  idea  of  her. 
She  was  a  native  and  essential  cook,  as  much  as  Aunt  Chloe,  — 
cooking  being  an  indigenous  talent  of  the  African  race  ;  but 
Chloe  was  a  trained  and  methodical  one,  who  moved  in  an  or 
derly  domestic  harness,  while  Dinah  was  a  self-taught  genius, 
and,  like  geniuses  in  general,  was  positive,  opinionated,  and  er 
ratic,  to  the  last  degree. 

Like  a  certain  class  of  modern  philosophers,  Dinah  perfectly 
scorned  logic  and  reason  in  every  shape,  and  always  took  refuge 
in  intuitive  certainty  ;  and  here  she  was  perfectly  impregnable. 
No  possible  amount  of  talent,  or  authority,  or  explanation  could 
ever  make  her  believe  that  any  other  way  was  better  than  her 
own,  or  that  the  course  she  had  pursued  in  the  smallest  matter 
could  be  in  the  least  modified.  This  had  been  a  conceded  point 
with  her  old  mistress,  Marie's  mother  ;  and  "  Miss  Marie,"  as 
Dinah  always  called  her  young  mistress,  even  after  her  mar 
riage,  found  it  easier  to  submit  than  contend  ;  and  so  Dinah  had 
ruled  supreme.  This  was  the  easier,  in  that  she  was  perfect 
mistress  of  that  diplomatic  art  which  unites  the  utmost  subser 
vience  of  manner  with  the  utmost  inflexibility  as  to  measure. 

Dinah  was  mistress  of  the  whole  art  and  mystery  of  excuse- 
making,  in  all  its  branches.  Indeed,  it  was  an  axiom  with  her 
that  the  cook  can  do  no  wrong  ;  and  a  cook  in  a  southern  kitchen 
finds  abundance  of  heads  and  shoulders  on  which  to  lay  off 
every  sin  and  frailty,  so  as  to  maintain  her  own  immaculateness 
entire.  If  any  part  of  the  dinner  was  a  failure,  there  were 
fifty  indisputably  good  reasons  for  it ;  and  it  was  the  fault  un 
deniably  of  fifty  other  people,  whom  Dinah  berated  with  unspar 
ing  zeal. 


230  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

But  it  was  very  seldom  that  there  was  any  failure  in  Dinah's 
last  results.  Though  her  mode  of  doing  everything  was  pecu 
liarly  meandering  and  circuitous,  and  without  any  sort  of  calcu 
lation  as  to  time  and  place,  —  though  her  kitchen  generally 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  arranged  by  a  hurricane  blowing  through 
it,  arid  she  had  about  as  many  places  for  each  cooking  utensil 
as  there  were  days  in  the  year,  —  yet,  if  one  would  have  pa 
tience  to  wait  her  own  good  time,  up  would  come  her  dinner  in 
perfect  order,  and  in  a  style  of  preparation  with  which  an  epi 
cure  could  find  no  fault. 

It  was  now  the  season  of  incipient  preparation  for  dinner. 
Dinah,  who  required  large  intervals  of  reflection  and  repose,  and 
was  studious  of  ease  in  all  her  arrangements,  was  seated  on  the 
kitchen  floor,  smoking  a  short,  stumpy  pipe,  to  which  she  was 
much  addicted,  and  which  she  always  kindled  up,  as  a  sort  of 
censer,  whenever  she  felt  the  need  of  an  inspiration  in  her  ar 
rangements.  It  was  Dinah's  mode  of  invoking  the  domestic 
Muses. 

Seated  around  her  were  various  members  of  that  rising  race 
with  which  a  southern  household  abounds,  engaged  in  shelling 
peas,  peeling  potatoes,  picking  pin-feathers  out  of  fowls,  and 
other  preparatory  arrangements,  —  Dinah  every  once  in  a  while 
interrupting  her  meditations  to  give  a  poke,  or  a  rap  on  the  head, 
to  some  of  the  young  operators,  with  the  pudding-stick  that  lay 
by  her  side.  In  fact,  Dinah  ruled  over  the  woolly  heads  of  the 
younger  members  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  seemed  to  consider 
them  born  for  no  earthly  purpose  but  to  u  save  her  steps,"  as 
she  phrased  it.  It  was  the  spirit  of  the  system  under  which  she 
had  grown  up,  and  she  carried  it  out  to  its  full  extent. 

Miss  Ophelia,  after  passing  on  her  reformatory  tour  through 
all  the  other  parts  of  the  establishment,  now  entered  the  kitchen. 
Dinah  had  heard,  from  various  sources,  what  was  going  on,  and 
resolved  to  stand  on  defensive  and  conservative  ground,  —  men 
tally  determined  to  oppose  and  ignore  every  new  measure,  with 
out  any  actual  and  observable  contest. 

The  kitchen  was  a  large  brick-floored  apartment,  with  a  great 
old-fashioned  fireplace  stretching  along  one  side  of  it,  —  an  ar 
rangement  which  St.  Clare  had  vainly  tried  to  persuade  Dinah 
to  exchange  for  the  convenience  of  a  modern  cook-stove.  Not 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  231 

she.  No  Puseyite,  or  conservative  of  any  school,  was  ever  mor« 
inflexibly  attached  to  time-honored  inconveniences  than  Dinah. 

When  St.  Clare  had  first  returned  from  the  north,  impressed 
with  the  system  and  order  of  his  uncle's  kitchen  arrangements, 
he  had  largely  provided  his  own  with  an  array  of  cupboards, 
drawers,  and  various  apparatus,  to  induce  systematic  regulation, 
under  the  sanguine  illusion  that  it  would  be  of  any  possible  as 
sistance  to  Dinah  in  her  arrangements.  He  might  as  well  have 
provided  them  for  a  squirrel  or  a  magpie.  The  more  drawers 
and  closets  there  were,  the  more  hiding-holes  could  Dinah  make 
for  the  accommodation  of  old  rags,  hair-combs,  old  shoes,  rib 
bons,  cast-off  artificial  flowers,  and  other  articles  of  vertu, 
wherein  her  soul  delighted. 

When  Miss  Ophelia  entered  the  kitchen,  Dinah  did  not  rise, 
but  smoked  on  in  sublime  tranquillity,  regarding  her  movements 
obliquely  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  but  apparently  intent 
only  on  the  operations  around  her. 

Miss  Ophelia  commenced  opening  a  set  of  drawers. 

"  What  is  this  drawer  for,  Dinah  ?  "  she  said. 

"It  's  handy  for  most  anything,  Missis,"  said  Dinah.  So  it 
appeared  to  be.  From  the  variety  it  contained,  Miss  Ophelia 
pulled  out  first  a  fine  damask  table-cloth  stained  with  blood, 
having  evidently  been  used  to  envelop  some  raw  meat. 

"  What 's  this,  Dinah  ?  You  don't  wrap  up  meat  in  your 
mistress's  best  table-cloths  ?  " 

"Oh  Lor,  Missis,  no;  the  towels  was  all  a  missin',  —  so  I 
jest  did  it.  I  laid  out  to  wash  that  ar,  —  that 's  why  I  put  it 
thar." 

"  Shif 'less !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia  to  herself,  proceeding  to 
*umble  over  the  drawer,  where  she  found  a  nutmeg-grater  and 
two  or  three  nutmegs,  a  Methodist  hymn-book,  a  couple  of 
soiled  Madras  handkerchiefs,  some  yarn  and  knitting-work,  a 
paper  of  tobacco  and  a  pipe,  a  few  crackers,  one  or  two  gilded 
china  saucers  with  some  pomade  in  them,  one  or  two  thin  old 
shoes,  a  piece  of  flannel  carefully  pinned  up  inclosing  some 
small  white  onions,  several  damask  table-napkins,  some  coarse 
crash  towels,  some  twine  and  darning-needles,  and  several  bro 
ken  papers,  from  which  sundry  sweet  herbs  were  sifting  into  the 
drawer. 


232  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

"  Where  do  you  keep  your  nutmegs,  Dinah  ? '?  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  with  the  air  of  one  who  prayed  for  patience. 

"  Most  any  whar,  Missis ;  there  's  some  in  that  cracked  tea 
cup,  up  there,  and  there  's  some  over  in  that  ar  cupboard." 

"  Here  are  some  in  the  grater,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  holding 
them  up. 

"  Laws,  yes,  I  put  'em  there  this  morning,  —  I  likes  to  keep 
my  things  handy,"  said  Dinah.  "  You,  Jake !  what  are  you 
stopping  for!  You'll  cotch  it!  Be  still,  thar!"she  added, 
with  a  dive  of  her  stick  at  the  criminal. 

"  What 's  this  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  holding  up  the  saucer  of 
pomade. 

"  Laws,  it  's  my  liar  grease ;  —  I  put  it  thar  to  have  it  handy." 

"  Do  you  use  your  mistress's  best  saucers  for  that?  " 

"  Law  !  it  was  cause  I  was  driv,  and  in  sich  a  hurry ;  —  I 
was  gwine  to  change  it  this  very  day." 

"  Here  are  two  damask  table-napkins." 

"  Them  table-napkins  I  put  thar,  to  get  'em  washed  out,  some 
day." 

"  Don't  you  have  some  place  here  on  purpose  for  things  to  be 
washed  ?  " 

"  Well,  Mas'r  St.  Clare  got  dat  ar  chest,  he  said,  for  dat ; 
but  I  likes  to  mix  up  biscuit  and  hev  my  things  on  it  some  days, 
and  then  it  an't  handy  a  liftin'  up  the  lid." 

"  Why  don't  you  mix  your  biscuits  on  the  pastry-table, 
there  ?  " 

"  Law,  Missis,  it  gets  sot  so  full  of  dishes,  and  one  thing  and 
another,  der  an't  no  room,  noways  " — 

"  But  you  should  wash  your  dishes  and  clear  them  away." 

"  Wash  my  dishes  !  "  said  Dinah,  in  a  high  key,  as  her  wrath 
began  to  rise  over  her  habitual  respect  of  manner  ;  "  what  does 
ladies  know  'bout  work,  I  want  to  know  ?  When  'd  Mas'r  ever 
get  his  dinner,  if  I  was  to  spend  all  my  time  a  washin'  and  a 
puttin'  up  dishes  ?  Miss  Marie  never  telled  me  so,  no  how." 

"  Well,  here  are  these  onions." 

"  Laws,  yes ! "  said  Dinah ;  "  thar  is  whar  I  put  'em,  now. 
I  could  n't  'member.  Them  's  particular  onions  I  was  a  savin1 
for  dis  yer  very  stew.  I  'd  forgot  they  was  in  dat  ar  old 
flannel." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  233 

Miss  Ophelia  lifted  out  the  sifti*~>  papers  of  sweet  herbs. 

^  I  wish  Missis  would  n't  touch  dem  ar.  I  likes  to  keep  my 
things  where  I  knows  whar  to  go  to  'em,"  said  Dinah,  rather 
decidedly. 

"  But  you  don't  want  these  holes  in  the  papers." 

"  Them  's  handy  for  siftin'  on  't  out,"  said  Dinah. 

'But  you  Lee  it  spills  all  over  the  drawer." 

"  Laws,  yes !  if  Missis  will  go  a  tumblin'  things  all  up  so,  it 
will.  Missis  has  spilt  lots  dat  ar  way,"  said  Dinah,  coming 
uneasily  to  the  drawers.  "  If  Missis  only  will  go  up  sta'rs  till 
my  clarin'  up  time  comes,  I  '11  have  everything  right ;  but  I 
can't  do  nothin'  when  ladies  is  round,  a  henderin'.  You,  Sam, 
don't  you  gib  the  baby  dat  ar  sugar-bowl !  I  '11  crack  ye  over, 
if  ye  don't  mind !  " 

"  I  'm  going  through  the  kitchen,  and  going  to  put  every 
thing  in  order,  once,  Dinah ;  and  then  I  '11  expect  you  to  keep 
it  so." 

"  Lor,  now  !  Miss  Phelia ;  dat  ar  an't  no  way  for  ladies  to  do. 
I  never  did  see  ladies  doin'  no  sicl? ;  my  old  Missis  nor  Miss 
Marie  never  did,  and  I  don't  see  no  binder  need  on  't ;  "  and 
Dinah  stalked  indignantly  about,  while  Miss  Ophelia  piled  and 
sorted  dishes,  emptied  dozens  of  scattering  bowls  of  sugar  into 
one  receptacle,  sorted  napkins,  table-cloths,  and  towels,  for 
washing ;  washing,  wiping,  and  arranging  with  her  own  hands, 
and  with  a  speed  and  alacrity  which  perfectly  amazed  Dinah. 

"  Lor,  now !  if  dat  ar  de  way  dem  northern  ladies  do,  dey 
an't  ladies,  no  how,"  she  said  to  some  of  her  satellites,  when  at 
a  safe  hearing  distance.  "  I  has  things  as  straight  as  anybody, 
when  my  clarin'  up  time  comes ;  but  I  don't  want  ladies  round, 
a  henderin',  and  getting  my  things  all  where  I  can't  find  'em." 

To  do  Dinah  justice,  she  had,  at  irregular  periods,  paroxysms 
of  reformation  and  arrangement,  which  she  called  "  clarin'  up 
times,"  when  she  would  begin  with  great  zeal,  and  turn  every 
drawer  and  closet  wrong  side  outward,  on  to  the  floor  or  tables, 
and  make  the  ordinary  confusion  sevenfold  more  confounded. 
Then  she  would  light  her  pipe,  and  leisurely  go  over  her  ar 
rangements,  looking  things  over,  and  discoursing  upon  them  ; 
making  all  the  young  fry  scour  most  vigorously  on  the  tin 
things,  and  keeping  up  for  several  hours  a  most  energetic  state 


234  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

of  confusion,  which  she  would  explain  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
inquirers,  by  the  remark  that  she  was  a  "  clarin'  up."  "  She 
could  n't  hev  things  a  gwine  on  so  as  they  had  been,  and  she 
was  gwine  to  make  these  yer  young  ones  keep  better  order ;  " 
for  Dinah  herself,  somehow,  indulged  the  illusion  that  she,  her 
self,  was  the  soul  of  order,  and  it  was  only  the  young  uns,  and 
the  everybody  else  in  the  house,  that  were  the  cause  of  any 
thing  that  fell  short  of  perfection  in  this  respect.  When  all  the 
tins  were  scoured,  and  the  tables  scrubbed  snowy  white,  and 
everything  that  could  offend  tucked  out  of  sight  in  holes  and 
corners,  Dinah  would  dress  herself  up  in  a  smart  dress,  clean 
apron,  and  high,  brilliant  Madras  turban,  and  tell  all  marauding 
"  young  uns  "  to  keep  out  of  the  kitchen,  for  she  was  gwine  to 
have  things  kept  nice.  Indeed,  these  periodic  seasons  were 
often  an  inconvenience  to  the  whole  household;  for  Dinah 
would  contract  such  an  immoderate  attachment  to  her  scoured 
tin,  as  to  insist  upon  it  that  it  should  n't  be  used  again  for  any 
possible  purpose, — at  least,  till  the  ardor  of  the  "  clarin'  up" 
period  abated. 

Miss  Ophelia,  in  a  few  days,  thoroughly  reformed  every  de 
partment  of  the  house  to  a  systematic  pattern ;  but  her  labors 
in  all  departments  that  depended  on  the  cooperation  of  ser 
vants  were  like  those  of  Sisyphus  or  the  Danaides.  In  despair, 
she  one  day  appealed  to  St.  Clare. 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  getting  anything  like  system  in 
this  family !  " 

"To  be  sure,  there  is  n't,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Such  shiftless  management,  such  waste,  such  confusion,  I 
never  saw !  " 

"  I  dare  say  you  did  n't." 

"  You  would  not  take  it  so  coolly,  if  you  were  housekeeper." 

"  My  dear  cousin,  you  may  as  well  understand,  once  for  all, 
that  we  masters  are  divided  into  two  classes,  oppressors  and 
oppressed.  We  who  are  good  natured  and  hate  severity  make 
up  our  minds  to  a  good  deal  of  inconvenience.  If  we  ivill  keep 
a  shambling,  loose,  untaught  set  in  the  community,  for  our  con 
venience,  why,  we  must  take  the  consequence.  Some  rare  cases 
I  have  seen,  of  persons,  who,  by  a  peculiar  tact,  can  produce 
order  and  system  without  severity ;  but  I  'm  not  one  of  them, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  235 

—  and  so  I  made  up  my  mind,  long  ago,  to  let  things  go  just  as 
they  do.  I  will  not  have  the  poor  devils  thrashed  and  cut  to 
pieces,  and  they  know  it,  —  and,  of  course,  they  know  the  staff 
is  in  their  own  hands." 

"  But  to  have  no  time,  no  place,  no  order,  —  all  going  on  in 
this  shiftless  way  !  " 

"My  dear  Vermont,  you  natives  up  by  the  North  Pole  set 
an  extravagant  value  on  time  !  What  on  earth  is  the  use  of 
time  to  a  fellow  who  has  twice  as  much  of  it  as  he  knows  what 
to  do  with  ?  As  to  order  and  system,  where  there  is  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  lounge  on  the  sofa  and  read,  an  hour  sooner 
or  later  in  breakfast  or  dinner  is  n't  of  much  account.  Now, 
there  's  Dinah  gets  you  a  capital  dinner, —  soup,  ragout,  roast 
fowl,  dessert,  ice-creams,  and  all,  —  and  she  creates  it  all  out  of 
chaos  and  old  night  down  there,  in  that  kitchen.  I  think  it 
really  sublime,  the  way  she  manages.  But,  Heaven  bless  us ! 
if  we  are  to  go  down  there,  and  view  all  the  smoking  and 
squatting  about,  and  hurry  scurry  ation  of  the  preparatory  pro 
cess,  we  should  never  eat  more !  My  good  cousin,  absolve 
yourself  from  that !  It 's  more  than  a  Catholic  penance,  and 
does  no  more  good;  You  '11  only  lose  your  own  temper,  and 
utterly  confound  Dinah.  Let  her  go  her  own  way." 

"  But,  Augustine,  you  don't  know  how  I  found  things." 

"Don't  I?  Don't  I  know  that  the  rolling-pin  is  under  her 
bed,  and  the  nutmeg-grater  in  her  pocket  with  her  tobacco,  — 
that  there  are  sixty-five  different  sugar-bowls,  one  in  every  hole 
in  the  house,  —  that  she  washes  dishes  with  a  dinner-napkin  one 
day,  and  with  a  fragment  of  an  old  petticoat  the  next  ?  But 
the  upshot  is,  she  gets  up  glorious  dinners,  makes  superb  coffee ; 
and  you  must  judge  her  as  warriors  and  statesmen  are  judged, 
by  her  success.'" 

"  But  the  waste,  —  the  expense  !  " 

"  Oh,  well !  Lock  everything  you  can,  and  keep  the  key. 
Give  out  by  driblets,  and  never  inquire  for  odds  and  ends,  —  it 
is  n't  best." 

"  That  troubles  me,  Augustine.  I  can't  help  feeling  as  if 
these  servants  were  not  strictly  honest.  Are  you  sure  they  can 
be  relied  on  ?  " 

Augustine  laughed  immoderately  at  the  grnve  and  anxious 
face  with  which  Miss  Ophelia  propounded  the  question. 


236  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Oh,  cousin,  that  'a  too  good,  —  honest !  —  as  if  that 's  a  thing 
to  be  expected  !  Honest !  —  why,  of  course,  they  arn't.  Why 
should  they  be  ?  What  upon  earth  is  to  make  them  so  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  you  instruct  ?  " 

"  Instruct !  Oh,  fiddlestick  !  What  instructing  do  you  think 
I  should  do?  I  look  like  it!  As  to  Marie,  she  has  spirit 
enough,  to  be  sure,  to  kill  off  a  whole  plantation,  if  I  'd  let  her 
manage  ;  but  she  would  n't  get  the  cheatery  out  of  them." 

"  Are  there  no  honest  ones  ?  " 

"  Well,  now  and  then  one,  whom  Nature  makes  so  impracti 
cably  simple,  truthful,  and  faithful,  that  the  worst  possible 
influence  can't  destroy  it.  But,  you  see,  from  the  mother's 
breast  the  colored  child  feels  and  sees  that  there  are  none  but 
underhand  ways  open  to  it.  It  can  get  along  no  other  way 
with  its  parents,  its  mistress,  its  young  master  and  missie  play 
fellows.  Cunning  and  deception  become  necessary,  inevitable 
habits.  It  is  n't  fair  to  expect  anything  else  of  him.  He  ought 
not  to  be  punished  for  it.  As  to  honesty,  the  slave  is  kept  in 
that  dependent,  semi-childish  state,  that  there  is  no  making  him 
realize  the  rights  of  property,  or  feel  that  his  master's  goods  are 
not  his  own,  if  he  can  get  them.  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  how 
they  can  be  honest.  Such  a  fellow  as  Tom,  here,  is  —  is  a 
-  moral  miracle  !  " 

"  And  what  becomes  of  their  souls  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  That  is  n't  my  affair,  as  I  know  of,"  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  I  am 
only  dealing  in  facts  of  the  present  life.  The  fact  is,  that  the 
whole  race  are  pretty  generally  understood  to  be  turned  over  to 
the  devil,  for  our  benefit,  in  this  world,  however  it  may  turn  out 
in  another !  " 

"  This  is  perfectly  horrible !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia ;  "  you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves !  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  am.  We  are  in  pretty  good  company, 
for  all  that,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  as  people  in  the  broad  road  gen 
erally  are.  Look  at  the  high  and  the  low,  all  the  world  over, 
and  it 's  the  same  story,  —  the  lower  class  used  up,  body,  soul, 
and  spirit,  for  the  good  of  the  upper.  It  is  so  in  England ;  it 
is  so  everywhere  ;  and  yet  all  Christendom  stands  aghast,  with 
virtuous  indignation,  because  we  do  the  thing  in  a  little  different 
shape  from  what  they  do  it." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  237 

"  It  is  n't  so  in  Vermont." 

"  Ah,  well,  in  New  England  and  in  the  free  states,  you  have 
the  better  of  us,  I  grant.  But  there  's  the  bell ;  so,  cousin,  let 
us  for  a  while  lay  aside  our  sectional  prejudices,  and  come  out 
to  dinner." 

As  Miss  Ophelia  was  in  the  kitchen,  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
afternoon,  some  of  the  sable  children  called  out,  "  La,  sakes  ! 
thar  's  Prue  a  coming,  grunting  along  like  she  allers  does." 

A  tall,  bony  colored  woman  now  entered  the  kitchen,  bearing 
on  her  head  a  basket  of  rusks  and  hot  rolls. 

"  Ho,  Prue  !  you  've  come,"  said  Dinah. 

Prue  had  a  peculiar  scowling  expression  of  countenance,  and 
a  sullen,  grumbling  voice.  She  set  down  her  basket,  squatted 
herself  down,  and,  resting  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  said,  — 

"  O  Lord !  I  wish  't  I 's  dead !  " 

"  Why  do  you  wish  you  were  dead  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  I  'd  be  out  o'  my  misery,"  said  the  woman,  gruffly,  without 
taking  her  eyes  from  the  floor. 

"  What  need  you  getting  drunk,  then,  and  cutting  up,  Prue  ?  " 
said  a  spruce  quadroon  chambermaid,  dangling,  as  she  spoke,  a 
pair  of  coral  ear-drops. 

The  woman  looked  at  her  with  a  sour,  surly  glance. 

"  Maybe  you  '11  come  to  it,  one  of  these  yer  days.  I  'd  be 
glad  to  see  you,  I  would  ;  then  you  '11  be  glad  of  a  drop,  like 
me,  to  forget  your  misery." 

"  Come,  Prue,"  said  Dinah,  "  let 's  look  at  your  rusks. 
Here  's  Missis  will  pay  for  them." 

Miss  Ophelia  took  out  a  couple  of  dozen. 

"  Thar  's  some  tickets  in  that  ar  old  cracked  jug  on  the  top 
shelf,"  said  Dinah.  "  You,  Jake,  climb  up  and  get  it  down." 

"  Tickets,  —  what  are  they  for  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  We  buys  tickets  of  her  Mas'r,  and  she  gives  us  bread  for 
'em." 

"  And  they  counts  my  money  and  tickets,  when  I  gets  home, 
to  see  if  I 's  got  the  change  ;  and  if  I  han't,  they  half  kills 
me." 

"  And  serves  you  right,"  said  Jane,  the  pert  chambermaid, 
"  if  you  will  take  their  money  to  get  drank  on.  That 's  what 
she  does,  Missis." 


238  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  And  that 's  what  I  will  do,  —  I  can't  live  no  other  ways,  — 
drink  and  forget  my  misery." 

"  You  are  very  wicked  and  very  foolish,"  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
"  to  steal  your  master's  money  to  make  yourself  a  brute  with." 

"  It 's  mighty  likely,  Missis ;  but  I  will  do  it,  —  yes,  I  will. 
O  Lord !  1  wish  I 's  dead,  I  do,  —  I  wish  I 's  dead,  and  out 
of  my  misery! '"  and  slowly  and  stiffly  the  old  creature  rose,  and 
got  her  basket  on  her  head  again ;  but  before  she  went  out,  she 
looked  at  the  quadroon  girl,  who  still  stood  playing  with  her 
ear-drops. 

"  Ye  think  ye  're  mighty  fine  with  them  ar,  a  frolickin'  and 
a  tossin'  your  head,  and  a  lookin'  down  on  everybody.  Well, 
never  mind,  —  you  may  live  to  be  a  poor,  old,  cut-up  crittur, 
like  me.  Hope  to  the  Lord  ye  will,  I  do ;  then  see  if  ye  won't 
drink  —  drink  —  drink  —  yerself  into  torment ;  and  sarve  ye 
right,  too,  —  ugh !  "  and,  with  a  malignant  howl,  the  woman 
left  the  room. 

"  Disgusting  old  beast !  "  said  Adolph,  who  was  getting  his 
master's  shaving-water.  "  If  I  was  her  master,  I  'd  cut  her  up 
worse  than  she  is." 

"  Ye  could  n't  do  that  ar,  no  ways,"  said  Dinah.  "  Her 
back  's  a  far  sight  now,  —  she  can't  never  get  a  dress  together 
over  it." 

"I  think  such  low  creatures  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  go 
round  to  genteel  families,"  said  Miss  Jane.  "  What  do  you 
think,  Mr.  St.  Clare  ?  "  she  said,  coquettishly  tossing  her  head 
at  Adolph. 

It  must  be  observed  that,  among  other  appropriations  from 
his  master's  stock,  Adolph  was  in  the  habit  of  adopting  his 
name  and  address ;  and  that  the  style  under  which  he  moved, 
among  the  colored  circles  of  New  Orleans,  was  that  of  Mr.  St. 
Clare. 

"  I  'm  certainly  of  your  opinion,  Miss  Benoir,"  said  Adolph. 

Benoir  was  the  name  of  Marie  St.  Clare's  family,  and  Jane 
was  one  of  her  servants. 

"  Pray,  Miss  Benoir,  may  I  be  allowed  to  ask  if  those  drops 
are  for  the  ball,  to-morrow  night  ?  They  are  certainly  bewitch 
ing!" 

•"  I  wonder,  P<>W,  Mr.  St.  Clare,  what  the  impudence  of  you 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  239 

men  will  come  to !  "  said  Jane,  tossing  her  pretty  head  till  the 
ear-drops  twinkled  again.  "  I  shan't  dance  with  you  for  a  whole 
evening,  if  you  go  to  asking  me  any  more  questions." 

"  Oh,  you  could  n't  be  so  cruel,  now !  I  was  just  dying  to 
know  whether  you  would  appear  in  your  pink  tarlatan,"  said 
Adolph. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Rosa,  a  bright,  piquant  little  quadroon, 
who  came  skipping  down  stairs  at  this  moment. 

"Why,  Mr.  St.  Clare  is  so  impudent!  " 

"On  my  honor,"  said  Adolph,  "I'll  leave  it  to  Miss  Rosa, 
now." 

"  I  know  he  's  always  a  saucy  creature,"  said  Rosa,  poising 
herself  on  one  of  her  little  feet,  and  looking  maliciously  at 
Adolph.  "  He  's  always  getting  me  so  angry  with  him." 

"  Oh,  ladies,  ladies,  you  will  certainly  break  my  heart,  be 
tween  you,"  said  Adolph.  "  I  shall  be  found  dead  in  my  bed, 
some  morning,  and  you  '11  have  it  to  answer  for." 

"  Do  hear  the  horrid  creature  talk !  "  said  both  ladies,  laugh 
ing  immoderately. 

"  Come,  —  clar  out,  you !  I  can't  have  you  cluttering  up  the 
kitchen,"  said  Dinah ;  "  in  my  way,  foolin'  round  here." 

"  Aunt  Dinah  's  glum,  because  she  can't  go  to  the  ball,"  said 
Rosa. 

"Don't  want  none  o'  your  light-colored  balls,"  said  Dinah; 
"  cuttin'  round,  makin'  b'lieve  you  's  white  folks.  Arter  all, 
you  's  niggers,  much  as  I  am." 

"  Aunt  Dinah  greases  her  wool  stiff,  every  day,  to  make  it  lie 
straight,"  said  Jane. 

"And  it  will  be  wool,  after  all,"  said  Rosa,  maliciously  shak 
ing  down  her  long,  silky  curls. 

"  Well,  in  the  Lord's  sight,  an't  wool  as  good  as  har  any 
time  ?  "  said  Dinah.  "  I  'd  like  to  have  Missis  say  which  is 
worth  the  most,  —  a  couple  such  as  you,  or  one  like  me.  Get 
out  wid  ye,  ye  trumpery,  —  I  won't  have  ye  round !  " 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  in  a  twofold  manner. 
St.  Clare's  voice  was  heard  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  asking 
Adolph  if  he  meant  to  stay  all  night  with  his  shaving  water ; 
and  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  out  of  the  dining-room,  said,  — 

"Jane  and  Rosa,  what  are  you  wasting  your  time  for,  here? 
Go  in  and  attend  to  your  muslins." 


240  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

Our  friend  Tom,  who  had  been  in  the  kitchen  during  the  con 
versation  with  the  old  rusk-woman,  had  followed  her  out  into 
the  street.  He  saw  her  go  on,  giving  every  once  in  a  while  a 
suppressed  groan.  At  last  she  set  her  basket  down  on  a  door 
step,  and  began  arranging  the  old,  faded  shawl  which  covered 
her  shoulders. 

"  I  '11  carry  your  basket  a  piece,"  said  Tom,  compassionately. 

"  Why  should  ye  ?  "  said  the  woman.  "  I  don't  want  no 
help." 

"  You  seem  to  be  sick,  or  in  trouble,  or  something"  said  Tom. 

"  I  an't  sick,"  said  the  woman,  shortly. 

" I  wish,"  said  Tom,  looking  at  her  earnestly,  —  "I  wish  I 
could  persuade  you  to  leave  off  drinking.  Don't  you  know  it 
will  be  the  ruin  of  ye,  body  and  soul  ?  " 

"  I  knows  I  'm  gwine  to  torment,"  said  the  woman  sullenly. 
u  Ye  don't  need  to  tell  me  that  ar.  I 's  ugly,  —  I 's  wicked, 

—  I 's  gwine  straight  to  torment.    O  Lord !     I  wish  I 's  thar !  " 
Tom  shuddered  at  these  frightful  words,  spoken  with  a  sul 
len,  impassioned  earnestness. 

"  O  Lord  have  mercy  on  ye !  poor  crittur.  Han't  ye  never 
heard  of  Jesus  Christ  ?  " 

"  Jesus  Christ,  —  who  's  he  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  's  the  Lord,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  think  I  've  hearn  tell  o'  the  Lord,  and  the  judgment  and 
torment.  I  've  heard  o'  that." 

"  But  did  n't  anybody  ever  tell  you  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  that 
loved  us  poor  sinners,  and  died  for  us  ?  " 

"  Don't  know  nothin'  'bout  that,"  said  the  woman ;  "  nobody 
han't  never  loved  me,  since  my  old  man  died." 

"  Where  was  you  raised  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Up  in  Kentuck.  A  man  kept  me  to  breed  chil'en  for  mar 
ket,  and  sold  'em  as  fast  as  they  got  big  enough ;  last  of  all,  he 
sold  me  to  a  speculator,  and  my  Mas'r  got  me  o'  him." 

"  What  set  you  into  this  bad  way  of  drinkin'  ?  " 

"  To  get  shet  o'  my  misery.  I  had  one  child  after  I  come 
here ;  and  I  thought  then  I  'd  have  one  to  raise,  cause  Mas'r 
was  n't  a  speculator.  It  was  the  peartest  little  thing !  and 
Missis  she  seemed  to  think  a  heap  on  't,  at  first ;  it  never  cried, 

—  it  was  likely  and  fat.     But  Missis  tuck  sick,  and  I  tended 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  241 

her;  and  I  tuck  the  fever,  and  ray  milk  all  left  me,  and  the 
child  it  pined  to  skin  and  bone,  and  Missis  would  n't  buy  milk 
for  it.  She  would  n't  hear  to  me,  when  I  telled  her  I  had  n't 
milk.  She  said  she  knowed  I  could  feed  it  on  what  other  folka 
eat ;  and^he  child  kinder  pined,  and  cried,  and  cried,  and  cried, 
day  and  night,  and  got  all  gone  to  skin  a.nd  bones,  and  Missis 
got  sot  agin  it,  and  she  said  'twarn't  nothin'  but  crossness, 
She  wished  it  was  dead,  she  said ;  and  she  would  n't  let  me  have 
it  o'  nights,  'cause,  she  said,  it  kept  me  awake,  and  made  mq 
good  for  nothing.  She  made  me  sleep  in  her  room ;  and  I  had 
to  put  it  away  off  in  a  little  kind  o'  garret,  and  thar  it  cried  it 
self  to  death,  one  night.  It  did  ;  and  I  tuck  to  drinkin',  to  keep 
its  crying  out  of  my  ears !  I  did,  —  and  I  will  drink  !  I  will, 
if  I  do  go  to  torment  for  it !  Mas'r  says  I  shall  go  to  torment, 
and  I  tell  him  I  've  got  thar  now !  " 

"  Oh,  ye  poor  crittur  !  "  said  Tom,  "  han't  nobody  never  telled 
ye  how  the  Lord  Jesus  loved  ye,  and  died  for  ye  ?  Han't  they 
telled  ye  that  he  11  help  ye,  and  ye  can  go  to  heaven,  and  have 
rest,  at  last !  " 

"  I  looks  like  gwine  to  heaven,"  said  the  woman  ;  "  an't  thar 
where  white  folks  is  gwine  ?  S'pose  they  'd  have  me  thar  ?  I'd 
rather  go  to  torment,  and  get  away  from  Mas'r  and  Missis.  I 
had  so,"  she  said,  as,  with  her  usual  groan,  she  got  her  basket 
on  her  head,  and  walked  sullenly  away. 

Tom  turned,  and  walked  sorrowfully  back  to  the  house.  In 
the  court  he  met  little  Eva,  —  a  crown  of  tuberoses  on  her  head, 
and  her  eyes  radiant  with  delight. 

"  Oh,  Tom !  here  you  are.  I  'm  glad  I  Ve  found  you.  Papa 
says  you  may  get  out  the  ponies,  and  take  me  in  my  little  new 
carriage,"  she  said,  catching  his  hand.  "  But  what 's  the  mat 
ter  Tom?  —  you  look  sober." 

"  I  feel  bad,  Miss  Eva,"  said  Tom,  sorrowfully.  "  But  I  '11 
get  the  horses  for  you." 

"  But  do  tell  me,  Tom,  what  is  the  matter.  I  saw  you  talking 
to  cross  old  Prue." 

Tom,  in  simple,  earnest  phrase,  told  Eva  the  woman's  history. 
She  did  not  exclaim,  or  wonder,  or  weep,  as  other  children 
do.  Her  cheeks  grew  pale,  and  a  deep,  earnest  shadow  passed 
over  her  eyes.  She  laid  both  hands  on  her  bosom,  and  sighed 
heavily. 


242  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

MISS  OPHELIA'S  EXPERIENCES  AND  OPINIONS,  CONTINUED. 

"  TOM,  you  need  n't  get  me  the  horses.  I  don't  want  to  go/' 
she  said. 

"Why  not,  Miss  Eva?" 

"  These  things  sink  into  my  heart,  Tom,"  said  Eva,  —  "  they 
sink  into  my  heart,"  she  repeated,  earnestly.  "I  don't  want  to 
go  ;  "  and  she  turned  from  Tom,  and  went  into  the  house. 

A  few  days  after,  another  woman  came,  in  old  Prue's  place, 
g  the  rusks  ;  Miss  Ophelia  was  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Lor !  "  said  Dinah,  "  what 's  got  Prue  ?  " 

"  Prue  is  n't  coming  any  more,"  said  the  woman,  mysteri 
ously. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Dinah.     "  She  an't  dead,  is  she  ?  " 

"  We  does  n't  exactly  know.  She  's  down  cellar,"  said  the 
woman,  glancing  at  Miss  Ophelia. 

After  Miss  Ophelia  had  taken  the  rusks,  Dinah  followed  the 
woman  to  the  door. 

"  What  has  got  Prue,  any  how  ?  "  she  said. 

The  woman  seemed  desirous,  yet  reluctant,  to  speak,  and  an 
swered,  in  a  low,  mysterious  tone,  — 

"  Well,  you  mustn't  tell  nobody.  Prue,  she  got  drunk  agin, 
—  and  they  had  her  down  cellar,  —  and  thar  they  left  her  all 
day,  —  and  I  hearn  'em  saying  that  the  flies  had  got  to  her,  — 
and  she  's  dead  !  " 

Dinah  held  up  her  hands,  and,  turning,  saw  close  by  her  side 
the  spirit-like  form  of  Evangeline,  her  large,  mystic  eyes  dilated 
Vith  horror,  and  every  drop  of  blood  driven  from  her  lips  and 
cheeks. 

"  Lor  bless  us  ?  Miss  Eva 's  gwine  to  faint  away !  What 
got  us  all,  to  let  her  har  such  talk  ?  Her  pa  '11  be  rail  mad." 

"  I  shan't  faint,  Dinah,"  said  the   child,  firmly  ;  "  and  wkv 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  243 

should  n't  I  hear  it  ?  It  an't  so  much  for  m«  to  hear  it,  as  for 
poor  Prue  to  suffer  it." 

"Lor  sakes  f  it  is  n't  for  sweet,  delicate  young  ladies,  like 
you,  — these  yer  stories  is  n't ;  it 's  enough  to  kill  'em  !  " 

Eva  sighed  again,  and  walked  up  stairs  with  a  slow  and  mel 
ancholy  step. 

Miss  Ophelia  anxiously  inquired  the  woman's  story.  Dinah 
gave  a  very  garrulous  version  of  it,  to  which  Tom  added  the 
particulars  which  he  had  drawn  from  her  that  morning. 

"  An  abominable  business  —  perfectly  horrible  !  "  she  ex 
claimed,  as  she  entered  the  room  where  St.  Clare  lay  reading  his 
paper. 

"  Pray,  what  iniquity  has  turned  up  now  ?  "  said  he. 

"  What  now  ?  why,  those  folks  have  whipped  Prue  to  death !  " 
said  Miss  Ophelia,  going  on,  with  great  strength  of  detail,  into 
the  story,  and  enlarging  on  its  most  shocking  particulars. 

"  I  thought  it  would  come  to  that,  some  time,"  said  St.  Clare, 
going  on  with  his  paper. 

"  Thought  so  !  —  an't  you  going  to  do  anything  about  it  ?  " 
said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  Have  n't  you  got  any  selectmen,  or  any 
body,  to  interfere  and  look  after  such  matters  ?  " 

"  It 's  commonly  supposed  that  the  property  interest  is  a  suffi 
cient  guard  in  these  cases.  If  people  choose  to  ruin  their  own 
possessions,  I  don't  know  what 's  to  be  done.  It  seems  the  poor 
creature  was  a  thief  and  a  drunkard ;  and  so  there  won't  be 
much  hope  to  get  up  sympathy  for  her." 

"  It  is  perfectly  outrageous,  —  it  is  horrid,  Augustine  !  It 
will  certainly  bring  down  vengeance  upon  you." 

"  My  dear  cousin,  I  did  n't  do  it,  and  I  can't  help  it ;  I  would, 
if  I  could.  If  low-minded,  brutal  people  will  act  like  themselves, 
what  am  I  to  do  ?  They  have  absolute  control ;  they  are  irre 
sponsible  despots.  There  would  be  no  use  in  interfering  ;  there 
is  no  law  that  amounts  to  anything  practically,  for  such  a  case. 
The  best  we  can  do  is  to  shut  our  eyes  and  ears,  and  let  it  alone. 
It 's  the  only  resource  left  us." 

"  How  can  you  shut  your  eyes  and  ears  ?  How  can  you  let 
such  things  alone  ?  " 

"  My  dear  child,  what  do  you  expect  ?  Here  is  a  whele  class, 
—  debased,  uneducated,  indolent,  provoking,  —  put,  without  any 


244  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

nort  of  terms  or  conditions,  entirely  into  the  hands  of  such  peo 
ple  as  the  majority  in  our  world  are  ;  people  who  have  neither 
consideration  nor  self-control,  who  have  n't  even  an  enlightened 
regard  to  their  own  interest,  —  for  that 's  the  case  with  the 
largest  half  of  mankind.  Of  course,  in  a  community  so  organ 
ized,  what  can  a  man  of  honorable  and  humane  feelings  do,  but 
shut  his  eyes  all  he  can,  and  harden  his  heart  ?  I  can't  buy 
every  poor  wretch  I  see.  I  can't  turn  knight-errani,  and  under 
take  to  redress  every  individual  case  of  wrong  in  such  a  city 
as  this.  The  most  I  can  do  is  to  try  and  keep  out  of  the  way 
of  it." 

St.  Clare's  fine  countenance  was  for  a  moment  overcast ;  he 
looked  annoyed,  but,  suddenly  calling  up  a  gay  smile,  he 
said,  — 

"  Come,  cousin,  don't  stand  there  looking  like  one  of  the 
Fates  ;  you  've  only  seen  a  peep  through  the  curtain,  —  a  speci 
men  of  what  is  going  on,  the  world  over,  in  some  shape  or  other. 
If  we  are  to  be  prying  and  spying  into  all  the  dismals  of  life,  we 
should  have  no  heart  to  anything.  'T  is  like  looking  too  close 
into  the  details  of  Dinah's  kitchen  ;  "  and  St.  Clare  lay  back  on 
the  sofa,  and  busied  himself  with  his  paper. 

Miss  Ophelia  sat  down,  and  pulled  out  her  knitting-work,  and 
sat  there  grim  with  indignation.  She  knit  and  knit,  but  while 
she  mused  the  fire  burned ;  at  last  she  broke  out,  — 

"  I  tell  you,  Augustine,  I  can't  get  over  things  so,  if  you  can. 
It 's  a  perfect  abomination  for  you  to  defend  such  a  system,  — 
that 's  my  mind  !  " 

"What  now?"  said  St.  Clare,  looking  up.  "At  it  again, 
hey  ?  " 

"  I  say  it 's  perfectly  abominable  for  you  to  defend  such  a 
system  !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  with  increasing  warmth. 

"  /  defend  it,  my  dear  lady  ?  Who  ever  said  I  did  defend 
it  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Of  course,  you  defend  it,  —  you  all  do,  —  all  you  South 
erners.  What  do  you  have  slaves  for,  if  you  don't  ?  " 

"  Are  you  such  a  sweet  innocent  as  to  suppose  nobody  in  this 
world  ever  does  what  they  don't  think  is  right?  Don't  you, 
or  did  n't  you  ever,  do  anything  that  you  did  not  think  quits 
right?" 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  245 

"  If  I  do,  I  repent  of  it,  I  hope,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  rattling 
her  needles  with  energy. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  St.  Clare,  peeling  his  orange  ;  "  I  'm  repent 
ing  of  it  all  the  time." 

"  What  do  you  keep  on  doing  it  for  ?  " 

"  Did  n't  you  ever  keep  on  doing  wrong,  after  you  'd  repented, 
my  good  cousin  ?  " 

4i  Well,  Snly  when  I  've  been  very  much  tempted,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

"  Well,  I  'm  very  much  tempted,"  said  St.  Clare ;  "  that 's 
just  my  difficulty." 

"  But  I  always  resolve  I  won't,  and  I  try  to  break  off." 

"  Well,  I  have  been  resolving  I  won't,  off  and  on,  these  ten 
years,"  said  St.  Clare ;  "  but  I  have  n't,  somehow,  got  clear. 
Have  you  got  clear  of  all  your  sins,  cousin  ?  " 

"  Cousin  Augustine,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  seriously,  and  laying 
down  her  knitting-work,  "  I  suppose  I  deserve  that  you  should 
reprove  my  shortcomings.  I  know  all  you  say  is  true  enough  ; 
nobody  else  feels  them  more  than  I  do ;  but  it  does  seem  to  me, 
after  all,  there  is  some  difference  between  me  and  you.  It  seems 
to  me  I  would  cut  off  my  right  hand  sooner  than  keep  on,  from 
day  to  day,  doing  what  I  thought  was  wrong.  But,  then,  my 
conduct  is  so  inconsistent  with  my  profession,  I  don't  wonder 
you  reprove  me." 

"  Oh,  now,  cousin,"  said  Augustine,  sitting  down  on  the  floor, 
and  laying  his  head  back  in  her  lap,  "  don't  take  on  so  awfully 
serious !  You  know  what  a  good-for-nothing,  saucy  boy  I  al 
ways  was.  I  love  to  poke  you  up,  —  that 's  all,  —  just  to  see 
you  get  earnest.  I  do  think  you  are  desperately,  distressingly 
good ;  it  tires  me  to  death  to  think  of  it." 

"  But  this  is  a  serious  subject,  my  boy,  Auguste,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  laying  her  hand  on  his  forehead. 

"  Dismally  so,"  said  he  ;  "  and  I  —  well,  I  never  want  to 
talk  seriously  in  hot  weather.  What  with  mosquitoes  and  all,  a 
fellow  can't  get  himself  up  to  any  very  sublime  moral  flights  ; 
and  I  believe,"  said  St.  Clare,  suddenly  rousing  himself  up, 
"  there  's  a  theory,  now !  I  understand  now  why  northern  na 
tions  are  always  more  virtuous  than  southern  ones,  —  I  see  into 
that  whole  subject." 


246  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Oh,  Auguste,  you  are  a  sad  rattlebrain !  " 

"  Am  I  ?  Well,  so  I  am,  I  suppose ;  but  for  once  I  will  b« 
serious,  now  ;  but  you  must  hand  me  that  basket  of  oranges  ;  — 
you  see,  you  '11  have  to  '  stay  me  with  flagons  and  comfort  me 
with  apples,'  if  I  'm  going  to  make  this  effort.  Now,"  said  Au 
gustine,  drawing  the  basket  up,  "  I  '11  begin :  When,  in  the 
course  of  human  events,  it  becomes  necessary  for  a  fellow  to  hold 
two  or  three  dozen  of  his  fellow-worms  in  captivity,  a  decent  re 
gard  to  the  opinions  of  society  requires  "  — 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  are  growing  more  serious,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

"  Wait,  —  I  'm  coming  on,  —  you  '11  hear.  The  short  of  the 
matter  is,  cousin,"  said  he,  his  handsome  face  suddenly  settling 
into  an  earnest  and  serious  expression,  "  on  this  abstract  ques 
tion  of  slavery  there  can,  as  I  think,  be  but  one  opinion.  Plant 
ers,  who  have  money  to  make  by  it,  —  clergymen,  who  have 
planters  to  please,  —  politicians,  who  want  to  rule  by  it,  —  may 
warp  and  bend  language  and  ethics  to  a  degree  that  shall  as 
tonish  the  world  at  their  ingenuity  ;  they  can  press  nature  and 
the  Bible,  and  nobody  knows  what  else,  into  the  service  ;  but, 
after  all,  neither  they  nor  the  world  believe  in  it  one  particle  the 
more.  It  comes  from  the  devil,  that 's  the  short  of  it ;  — •  anda_to 
my  mind,  it 's  a  pretty  respectable  specimen  of  what  he  can  do 
in  his  own  line." 

Miss  Ophelia  stopped  her  knitting,  and  looked  surprised  ;  and 
St.  Clare,  apparently  enjoying  her  astonishment,  went  on. 

"  You  seem  to  wonder ;  but  if  you  will  get  me  fairly  at  it, 
I  '11  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  This  cursed  business,  accursed 
of  God  and  man,  what  is  it  ?  Strip  it  of  all  its  ornament,  run 
it  down  to  the  root  and  nucleus  of  the  whole,  and  what  is  it  ? 
Why,  because  my  brother  Quashy  is  ignorant  and  weak,  and  I 
am  intelligent  and  strong,  —  because  I  know  how,  and  can  do 
it,  —  therefore,  I  may  steal  all  he  has,  keep  it,  and  give  him 
only  such  and  so  much  as  suits  my  fancy.  Whatever  is  too 
hard,  too  dirty,  too  disagreeable,  for  me,  I  may  set  Quashy  to 
doing.  Because  I  don't  like  work,  Quashy  shall  work.  Be 
cause  the  sun  burns  me,  Quashy  shall  stay  in  the  sun.  Quashy 
shall  earn  the  money,  and  I  will  spend  it.  Quashy  shall  lie 
down  in  every  puddle,  that  I  may  walk  over  dry-shod.  Quashy 


LIFE   AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  247 

shall  do  my  will,  and  not  his,  all  the  days  of  his  mortal  life,  and 
have  such  chance  of  getting  to  heaven,  at  last,  as  I  find  con 
venient.  This  I  take  to  be  about  what  slavery  is.  I  defy 
anybody  on  earth  to  read  our  slave-code,  as  it  stands  in  our 
law-books,  and  make  anything  else  of  it.  Talk  of  the  abuses  of 
slavery  !  Humbug !  The  thing  itself  is  the  essence  of  all 
abuse  !  And  the  only  reason  why  the  land  don't  sink  under  it, 
"Kite  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  is  because  it  is  used  in  a  way  in 
finitely  better  than  it  is.  For  pity's  sake,  for  shame's  sake,  be 
cause  we  are  men  born  of  women,  and  not  savage  beasts,  many 
of  us  do  not,  and  dare  not,  —  we  would  scorn  to  use  the  full 
power  which  our  savage  laws  put  into  our  hands.  And  he  who 
goes  the  furthest,  and  does  the  worst,  only  uses  within  limits  the 
power  that  the  law  gives  him." 

St.  Clare  had  started  up,  and,  as  his  manner  was  when 
excited,  was  walking,  with  hurried  steps,  up  and  down  the 
floor.  His  fine  face,  classic  as  that  of  a  Greek  statue,  seemed 
actually  to  burn  with  the  fervor  of  his  feelings.  His  large 
blue  eyes  flashed,  and  he  gestured  with  an  unconscious 
eagerness.  Miss  Ophelia  had  never  seen  him  in  this  mood 
before,  and  she  sat  perfectly  silent. 

"  I  declare  to  you,"  said  he,  suddenly  stopping  before  his 
cousin,  —  "  it 's  no  sort  of  use  to  talk  or  to  feel  on  this  subject, 
—  but  I  declare  to  you,  there  have  been  times  when  I  have 
thought,  if  the  whole  country  would  sink,  and  hide  all  this  in 
justice  and  misery  from  the  light,  I  wrould  willingly  sink  with 
it.  When  I  have  been  travelling  up  and  down  on  our  boats,  or 
about  on  my  collecting  tours,  and  reflected  that  every  brutal, 
disgusting,  mean,  low-lived  fellow  I  met,  was  allowed  by  our 
laws  to  become  absolute  despot  of  as  many  men,  women, 
and  children,  as  he  could  cheat,  steal,  or  gamble  money 
enough  to  buy,  —  when  I  have  seen  such  men  in  actual  owner 
ship  of  helpless  children,  of  young  girls  and  women,  I  have 
been  ready  to  curse  my  country,  to  curse  the  human  race ! " 

"Augustine!  Augustine!"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "I'm 
sure  you  Ve  said  enough.  I  never,  in  my  life,  heard  any 
thing  like  this,  even  at  the  north." 

"  At  the  north  ! "  said  St.  Clare,  with  a  sudden  change  of  ex 
pression,  and  resuming  somethingof  his  habitual  careless  tone. 


248  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Pooh  !  your  northern  folks  are  cold- blooded  ;  you  are  cooi  in 
everything !  You  can't  begin  to  curse  up  hill  and  down  as  we 
can,  when  we  get  fairly  at  it." 

"  Well,  but  the  question  is,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,  the  question  is,  —  and  a  deuce  of  a 
question  it  is  !  How  came  you  in  this  state  of  sin  and  misery  ? 
Well,  I  shall  answer  in  the  good  old  words  you  used  to  teach 
me,  Sundays.  I  came  so  by  ordinary  generation.  My  servants 
were  my  father's,  and,  what  is  more,  my  mother's ;  and  now 
they  are  mine,  they  and  their  increase,  which  bids  fair  to  be  a 
pretty  considerable  item.  My  father,  you  know,  came  first  from 
New  England ;  and  he  was  just  such  another  man  as  your 
father,  —  a  regular  old  Roman,  —  upright,  energetic,  noble- 
minded,  with  an  iron  will.  Your  father  settled  down  in  New 
England,  to  rule  over  rocks  and  stones,  and  to  force  an  exist 
ence  out  of  Nature  ;  and  mine  settled  in  Louisiana,  to  rule  over 
men  and  women,  and  force  existence  out  of  them.  My  mother," 
said  St.  Clare,  getting  up,  and  walking  to  a  picture  at  the  end 
of  the  room,  and  gazing  upward  with  a  face  fervent  with  venera 
tion,  "  she  was  divine  !  Don't  look  at  me  so  !  —  you  know 
what  I  mean  !  She  probably  was  of  mortal  birth ;  but,  as  far 
as  ever  I  could  observe,  there  was  no  trace  of  any  human  weak 
ness  or  error  about  her ;  and  everybody  that  lives  to  remember 
her,  whether  bond  or  free,  servant,  acquaintance,  relation,  all 
say  the  same.  Why,  cousin,  that  mother  has  been  all  that  has 
stood  between  me  and  utter  unbelief  for  years.  She  was  a 
direct  embodiment  and  personification  of  the  New  Testament, 
—  a  living  fact,  to  be  accounted  for,  and  to  be  accounted  for  in 
no  other  way  than  by  its  truth.  Oh,  mother !  mother  !  "  said 
St.  Clare,  clasping  his  hands,  in  a  sort  of  transport ;  and  then 
suddenly  checking  himself,  he  came  back,  and  seating  himself 
on  an  ottoman,  he  went  on  :  — 

"  My  brother  and  I  were  twins  ;  and  they  say,  you  know, 
that  twins  ought  to  resemble  each  other ;  but  we  were  in  all 
points  a  contrast.  He  had  black,  fiery  eyes,  coal-black  hair,  a 
strong,  fine  Roman  profile,  and  a  rich  brown  complexion.  I 
had  blue  eyes,  golden  hair,  a  Greek  outline,  and  fair  complexion. 
He  was  active  and  observing,  I  dreamy  and  inactive.  He  was 
generous  to  his  friends  and  equals,  but  proud,  dominant,  ov«r 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  249 

bearing,  to  inferiors,  and  utterly  unmerciful  to  whatever  set  it 
self  up  against  him.  Truthful  we  both  were,  he  from  pride  and 
courage,  I  from  a  sort  of  abstract  ideality.  We  loved  each 
other  about  as  boys  generally  do,  —  off  and  on,  and  in  general ; 
he  was  my  father's  pet,  and  I  my  mother's. 

"  There  was  a  morbid  sensitiveness  and  acuteness  of  feeling 
in  me  on  all  possible  subjects,  of  which  he  and  my  father  had 
no  kind  of  understanding,  and  with  which  they  could  have  110 
possible  sympathy.  But  mother  did;  and  so,  when  I  had 
quarrelled  with  Alfred,  and  father  looked  sternly  on  me,  I  used 
to  go  off  to  mother's  room,  and  sit  by  her.  I  remember  just 
how  she  used  to  look,  with  her  pale  cheeks,  her  deep,  soft,  seri 
ous  eyes,  her  white  dress,  —  she  always  wore  white  ;  and  I  used 
to  think  of  her  whenever  I  read  in  Revelation  about  the  saints 
that  were  arrayed  in  fine  linen,  clean  and  white.  She  had  a 
great  deal  of  genius  of  one  sort  and  another,  particularly  in 
music ;  and  she  used  to  sit  at  her  organ,  playing  fine  old  majes 
tic  music  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  singing  with  a  voice  more 
like  an  angel  than  a  mortal  woman  ;  and  I  would  lay  my  head 
down  on  her  lap,  and  cry,  and  dream,  and  feel,  —  oh  immeasur 
ably  !  —  things  that  I  had  no  language  to  say ! 

"  In  those  days,  this  matter  of  slavery  had  never  been  can 
vassed  as  it  has  now ;  nobody  dreamed  of  any  harm  in  it. 

"  My  fatherjyas  a  horn  aristnp.rai.  I  think,  in  some  pre- 
existent  state,  he  must  have  been  in  the  higher  circles  of  spir 
its,  and  brought  all  his  old  court  pride  along  with  him ;  for  it 
was  ingrain,  bred  in  the  bone,  though  he  was  originally  of  poor 
and  not  in  any  way  of  noble  family.  My  brother  was  begotten 
in  his  image. 

"  Now,  an  aristocrat,  you  know,  the  world  over,  has  no  human 
sympathies,  beyond  a  certain  line  in  society.  In  England  the 
line  is  in  one  place,  in  Burmah  in  another,  and  in  America  in 
another ;  but  the  aristocrat  of  all  these  countries  never  goes 
over  it.  What  would  be  hardship  and  distress  and  injustice  in 
his  own  class,  is  a  cool  matter  of  course  in  another  one.  My 
father's  dividing  line  was  that  of  color.  Among  his  equals, 
never  was  a  man  more  just  and  generous  •,  but  he  considered 
the  negro,  through  all  possible  gradations  of  color,  as  an  inter 
mediate  link  between  man  and  animals,  and  graded  all  his  ideas 


250  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OB, 

of  justice  or  generosity  on  this  hypothesis,     I  suppose,  to  be 

sure,  if  anybody  had  asked  him,  plump  and  fair,  whether  they 

had  human  immortal  souls,  he  might  have  hemmed  and  hawed, 

and  said  yes.     Bat  my  father  was  not  a  man  much  troubled 

|  with  spiritualism ;  religious  sentiment  he  had   none,  beyond  a 

|  veneration  for  God,  as  decidedly  the  head  of  the  upper  classes. 

"  Well,  my  father  worked  some  five  hundred  negroes ;  he 
was  an  inflexible,  driving,  punctilious  business  man  ;  everything 
was  to  move  by  system,  —  to  be  sustained  with  unfailing  accu 
racy  and  precision.  Now,  if  you  take  into  account  that  all  this 
was  to  be  worked  out  by  a  set  of  lazy,  twaddling,  shiftless  la 
borers,  who  had  grown  up,  all  their  lives,  in  the  absence  of 
every  possible  motive  to  learn  how  to  do  anything  but  '  shirk,' 
as  you  Vermonters  say,  you  '11  see  that  there  might  naturally 
be,  on  his  plantation,  a  great  many  things  that  looked  horrible 
and  distressing  to  a  sensitive  child,  like  me. 

"  Besides  all,  he  had  an  overseer,  —  a  great,  tall,  slab-sided, 
two-fisted  renegade  son  of  Vermont  (begging  your  pardon), 
who  had  gone  through  a  regular  apprenticeship  in  hardness  and 
brutality,  and  taken  his  degree  to  be  admitted  to  practice.  My 
mother  could  never  endure  him.  nor  I,  but  he  obtained  an  en 
tire  ascendency  over  my  father ;  and  this  man  was  the  absolute 
despot  of  the  estate. 

"  I  was  a  little  fellow  then,  but  I  had  the  same  love  that  I 
have  now  for  all  kinds  of  human  things,  — a  kind  of  passion  for 
the  study  of  humanity,  come  in  what  shape  it  would.  I  was 
found  in  the  cabins  and  among  the  field-hands  a  great  deal,  and, 
of  course,  was  a  great  favorite  ;  and  all  sorts  of  complaints  and 
grievances  were  breathed  in  my  ear  ;  and  I  told  them  to  mother, 

I  and  we,  between  us,  formed  a  sort  of  committee  for  a  redress  of 
grievances.  We  hindered  and  repressed  a  great  deal  of  cruelty, 
and  congratulated  ourselves  on  doing  a  vast  deal  of  good,  till, 
as  often  happens,  my  zeal  overacted.  Stubbs  complained  to 
my  father  that  he  could  n't  manage  the  hands,  and  must  resign 
his  position.  Father  was  a  fond,  indulgent  husband,  but  a  man 
that  never  flinched  from  anything  that  he  thought  necessary ; 
and  so  he  put  down  his  foot,  like  a  rock,  between  us  and  the 
field-hands.  He  told  my  mother,  in  language  perfectly  respect- 
ful  and  deferential,  but  quite  explicit,  that  over  the  house-ser 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  251 

vants  she  should  be  entire  mistress,  but  that  with  the  field-hands 
he  could  allow  no  interference.  He  revered  and  respected  her 
above  all  living  beings ;  but  he  would  have  said  it  all  the  same 
to  the  Virgin  Mary  herself,  if  she  had  come  in  the  way  of  his 
system. 

"  I  used  sometimes  to  hear  my  mother  reasoning  cases  with 
him,  —  endeavoring  to  excite  his  sympathies.  He  would  listen 
to  the  most  pathetic  appeals  with  the  most  discouraging  polite 
ness  and  equanimity.  '  It  all  resolves  itself  into  this,'  he  would 
eay ;  •'  must  I  part  with  Stubbs,  or  keep  him  ?  Stubbs  is  the 
soul  of  punctuality,  honesty,  and  efficiency,  —  a  thorough  busi 
ness  hand,  and  as  humane  as  the  general  run.  We  can't  have 
perfection  ;  and  if  I  keep  him,  I  must  sustain  his  administra 
tion  as  a  while,  even  if  there  are,  now  and  then,  things  that  are 
exceptionable.  All  government  includes  some  necessary  hard 
ness.  General  rules  will  bear  hard  on  particular  cases.'  This 
last  maxim  my  father  seemed  to  consider  a  settler  in  most  al 
leged  cases  of  cruelty.  After  he  had  said  that,  he  commonly 
drew  up  his  feet  on  the  sofa,  like  a  man  that  has  disposed  of  a 
business,  and  betook  himself  to  a  nap,  or  the  newspaper,  as  the 
case  might  be. 

"  The  fact  is,  my  father  showed  the  exact  sort  of  talent  for 
a  statesman.  He  could  have  divided  Poland  as  easily  as  an 
orange,  or  trod  on  Ireland  as  quietly  and  systematically  as  any 
man  living.  At  last  my  mother  gave  up,  in  despair.  It  never 
will  be  known,  till  the  last  account,  what  noble  and  sensitive 
natures  like  hers  have  felt,  cast,  utterly  helpless,  into  what  seems 
to  them  an  abyss  of  injustice  and  cruelty,  and  which  seems  so 
to  nobody  about  them.  It  has  been  an  age  of  long  sorrow  of 
such  natures,  in  such  a  hell  -  begotten  sort  of  world  as  ours. 
What  remained  for  her,  but  to  train  her  children  in  her  own 
views  and  sentiments  ?  Well,  after  all  you  say  about  training, 
children  will  grow  up  substantially  what  they  are  by  nature,  and 
only  that.  From  the  cradle,  Alfred  was  an  aristocrat ;  and  as 
he  grew  up,  instinctively  all  his  sympathies  and  all  his  reason 
ings  were  in  that  line,  and  all  mother's  exhortations  went  to  the 
winds.  As  to  me,  they  sunk  deep  into  me.  She  never  con 
tradicted,  in  form,  anything  that  my  father  said,  or  seemed  di 
rectly  to  differ  from  him;  but  she  impressed,  burnt  into  my 


252  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

very  soul,  with  all  the  force  of  her  deep,  earnest  nature,  an 
idea  of  the  dignity  and  worth  of  the  meanest  human  soul.  I 
have  looked  in  her  face  with  solemn  awe,  when  she  would  point 
up  to  the  stars  in  the  evening,  and  say  to  me,  '  See-there,  Au- 
guste,  the  poorest,  meanest  soul  on  our  place  will  he  living, 
when  all  these  stars  are  gone  forever,  —  will  live  as  long  as  God 
lives ! ' 

"  She  had  some  fine  old  paintings ;  one,  in  particular,  of 
Jesus  healing  a  hlind  man.  They  were  very  fine,  and  used  to 
impress  me  strongly.  '  See  there,  Auguste,'  she  would  say ; 
'  the  blind  man  was  a  beggar,  poor  and  loathsome  ;  therefore, 
he  would  not  heal  him  afar  off  He  called  him  to  him,  and 
put  his  hands  on  him  !  Remember  this,  my  boy.'  If  I  had 
lived  to  grow  up  under  her  care,  she  might  have  stimulated  me 
to  I  know  not  what  of  enthusiasm.  I  might  have  been  a  saint, 
reformer,  martyr,  —  but,  alas  !  alas  !  I  went  from  her  when  I 
was  only  thirteen,  and  I  never  saw  her  again  !  " 

St.  Clare  rested  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  did  not  speak  for 
some  minutes.  After  a  while,  he  looked  up,  and  went  on  :  — 

"  What  poor,  mean  trash  this  whole  business  of  human  virtue 
is  !  A  mere  matter,  for  the  most  part,  of  latitude  and  longitude, 
and  geographical  position,  acting  with  natural  temperament. 
The  greater  part  is  nothing  but  an  accident !  Your  father,  for 
example,  settles  in  Vermont,  in  a  town  where  all  are,  in  fact, 
free  and  equal ;  becomes  a  regular  church-member  and  deacon, 
and  in  due  time  joins  an  Abolition  society,  and  thinks  us  all 
little  better  than  heathens.  Yet  he  is,  for  all  the  world,  in  con 
stitution  and  habit,  a  duplicate  of  my  father.  I  can  see  it  leak 
ing  out  in  fifty  different  ways,  —  just  that  same  strong,  over 
bearing,  dominant  spirit.  You  know  very  well  how  impossible 
it  is  to  persuade  some  of  the  folks  in  your  village  that  Squire 
Sinclair  does  not  feel  above  them.  The  fact  is,  though  he  has 
fallen  on  democratic  times,  and  embraced  a  democratic  theory, 
he  is  to  the  heart  an  aristocrat,  as  much  as  my  father,  who 
ruled  over  five  or  six  hundred  slaves." 

Miss  Ophelia  felt  rather  disposed  to  cavil  at  this  picture,  and 
was  laying  down  her  knitting  to  begin,  but  St.  Clare  stopped  her. 

"  Now,  I  know  every  word  you  are  going  to  say.  I  do  not 
say  tkey  were  alike,  in  fact.  One  fell  into  a  condition  where 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  253 

everything  acted  against  the  natural  tendency,  and  the  other 
where  everything  acted  for  it ;  and  so  one  turned  out  a  pretty 
wilful,  stout,  overbearing  old  democrat,  and  the  other  a  wilful, 
stout  old  despot.  If  both  had  owned  plantations  in  Louisiana, 
they  would  have  been  as  like  as  two  old  bullets  cast  in  the  same 
mould." 

"  What  an  undutiful  boy  you  are  !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"I  don't  mean  them  any  disrespect,"  said  St.  Clare.  "You 
know  reverence  is  not  my  forte.  But,  to  go  back  to  my  his 
tory  :  — 5 

"  When  father  died,  he  left  the  whole  property  to  us  twin 
boys,  to  be  divided  as  we  should  agree.  There  does  not  breathe 
on  God's  earth  a  nobler-souled,  more  generous  fellow,  than  Al 
fred,  in  all  that  concerns  his  equals  ;  and  we  got  on  admirably 
with  this  property  question,  without  a  single  unbrotherly  word 
or  feeling.  We  undertook  to  work  the  plantation  together ; 
and  Alfred,  whose  outward  life  and  capabilities  had  double  the 
strength  of  mine,  became  an  enthusiastic  planter,  arid  a  wonder 
fully  successful  one. 

"  But  two  years'  trial  satisfied  me  that  I  could  not  be  a  part 
ner  in  that  matter.  To  have  a  great  gang  of  seven  hundred, 
whom  I  could  not  know  personally,  or  feel  any  individual  inter 
est  in,  bought  and  driven,  housed,  fed,  worked  like  so  many 
horned  cattle,  strained  up  to  military  precision,  —  the  question 
of  how  little  of  life's  commonest  enjoyments  would  keep  them 
in  working  order  being  a  constantly  recurring  problem,  the  ne 
cessity  of  drivers  and  overseers,  —  the  ever-necessary  whip, 
first,  last,  and  only  argument,  —  the  whole  thing  was  insuffer 
ably  disgusting  and  loathsome  to  me  ;  and  when  I  thought  of 
my  mother's  estimate  of  one  poor  human  soul,  it  became  even 
frightful ! 

"It's  all  nonsense  to  talk  to  me  about  slaves  enjoying  all 
this !  To  this  day  I  have  no  patience  with  the  unutterable 
trash  that  some  of  your  patronizing  Northerners  have  made  up, 
as  in  their  zeal  to  apologize  for  our  sins.  We  all  know  better. 
Teh1  me  that  any  man  Jiving  wants  to  work  all  his  days,  from 
day-dawn  till  dark,  under  the  constant  eye  of  a  master,  without 
the  power  of  putting  forth  one  irresponsible  volition,  on  the 
same  dreary,  monotonous,  unchanging  toil,  and  all  for  two  pairs 


254  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

of  pantaloons  and  a  pair  of  shoes  a  year,  with  enough  food  and 
shelter  to  keep  him  in  working  order !  Any  man  who  thinks 
that  human  beings  can,  as  a  general  thing,  be  made  about  as 
comfortable  that  way  as  any  other,  I  wish  he  might  try  it.  I  'd 
buy  the  dog,  and  work  him,  with  a  clear  conscience !  " 

u  I  always  have  supposed,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  that  you,  all 
of  you,  approved  of  these  things,  and  thought  them  right,  — 
according  to  Scripture." 

"  Humbug  !  We  are  not  quite  reduced  to  that  yet.  Alfred, 
who  is  as  determined  a  despot  as  ever  walked,  does  not  pretend 
to  this  kind  of  defence  ;  —  no,  he  stands,  high  and  haughty,  on 
that  good  old  respectable  ground,  the  right  of  the  strongest ;  and 
he  says,  and  I  think  quite  sensibly,  that  the  American  planter 
is  '  only  doing,  in  another  form,  what  the  English  aristocracy 
and  capitalists  are  doing  by  the  lower  classes  ;  '  that  is,  I  take 
it,  appropriating  them,  body  and  bone,  soul  and  spirit,  to  their 
use  and  convenience.  He  defends  both,  —  and  I  think,  at 
least,  consistently.  He  says  that  there  can  be  no  high  civiliza 
tion  without  enslavement  of  the  masses,  either  nominal  or  real. 
There  must,  he  says,  be  a  lower  class,  given  up  to  physical  toil 
and  confined  to  an  animal  nature ;  and  a  higher  one  thereby 
acquires  leisure  and  wealth  for  a  more  expanded  intelligence 
and  improvement,  and  becomes  the  directing  soul  of  the  lower. 
So  he  reasons,  because,  as  I  said,  he  is  born  an  aristocrat ;  —  so 
I  don't  believe,  because  I  was  born  a  democrat." 

"  How  in  the  world  can  the  two  things  be  compared  ?  "  said 
Miss  Ophelia.  "  The  English  laborer  is  not  sold,  traded,  parted 
from  his  family,  whipped." 

"  He  is  as  much  at  the  will  of  his  employer  as  if  he  were 
sold  to  him.  The  slave-owner  can  whip  his  refractory  slave 
to  death,  —  the  capitalist  can  starve  him  to  death.  As  to 
family  security,  it  is  hard  to  say  which  is  the  worst,  —  to  have 
one's  children  sold,  or  see  them  starve  to  death  at  home." 

"  But  it 's  no  kind  of  apology  for  slavery,  to  prove  that  it 
is  n't  worse  than  some  other  bad  thing." 

"  I  did  n't  give  it  for  one,  —  nay,  I  '11  say,  besides,  that  ours 
is  the  more  bold  and  palpable  infringement  of  human  rights ; 
actually  buying  a  man  up,  like  a  horse,  —  looking  at  his  teeth, 
cracking  his  joints,  and  trying  his  paces,  and  then  paying  down 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  255 

for  him,  —  having  speculators,  breeders,  traders,  and  brokers  in 
human  bodies  and  souls,  —  sets  the  thing  before  the  eyes  of  the 
civilized  world  in  a  more  tangible  form,  though  the  thing  done 
be,  after  all,  in  its  nature,  the  same  ;  that  is,  appropriating  one 
set  of  human  beings  to  the  use  and  improvement  of  another, 
without  any  regard  to  their  own." 

"  I  never  thought  of  the  matter  in  this  light,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

"  Well,  I  've  travelled  in  England  some,  and  I  've  looked 
over  a  good  many  documents  as  to  the  state  of  their  lower 
classes  ;  and  I  really  think  there  is  no  denying  Alfred,  when 
he  says  that  his  slaves  are  better  off  than  a  large  class  of  the 
population  of  England.  You  see,  you  must  not  infer,  from 
what  I  have  told  you,  that  Alfred  is  what  is  called  a  hard  mas 
ter  ;  for  he  is  n't.  He  is  despotic,  and  unmerciful  to  insubor 
dination  ;  he  would  shoot  a  fellow  down  with  as  little  remorse 
as  he  would  shoot  a  buck,  if  he  opposed  him.  But,  in  general, 
he  takes  a  sort  of  pride  in  having  his  slaves  comfortably  fed 
and  accommodated. 

"  When  I  was  with  him,  I  insisted  that  he  should  do  some 
thing  for  their  instruction  ;  and,  to  please  me,  he  did  get  a 
chaplain,  and  used  to  have  them  catechized  Sunday,  though,  I 
believe,  in  his  heart,  that  he  thought  it  would  do  about  as  much 
good  to  set  a  chaplain  over  his  dogs  and  horses.  And  the  fact 
is,  that  a  mind  stupefied  and  animalized  by  every  bad  influence 
from  the  hour  of  birth,  spending  the  whole  of  every  week-day 
in  unreflecting  toil,  cannot  be  done  much  with  by  a  few  hours 
on  Sunday.  The  teachers  of  Sunday-schools  among  the  manu 
facturing  population  of  England,  and  among  plantation-hands 
in  our  country,  could  perhaps  testify  to  the  same  result,  there 
and  here.  Yet  some  striking  exceptions  there  are  among  us, 
from  the  fact  that  the  negro  is  naturally  more  impressible  to  re- 
ligions  sentiment  than  the  white." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  how  came  you  to  give  up  your 
plantation  life  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  jogged  on  together  some  time,  till  Alfred  saw 
plainly  that  I  was  no  planter.  He  thought  it  absurd,  after  he 
had  reformed,  and  altered,  and  improved  everywhere,  to  suit 
my  notions,  that  I  still  remained  unsatisfied.  The  fact  was,  it 


256  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

was,  after  all,  the  THING  that  I  hated,  —  the  using  these  men 
and  women,  the  perpetuation  of  all  this  ignorance,  brutality, 
and  vice,  —  just  to  make  money  for  me  ! 

"  Besides,  I  was  always  interfering  in  the  details.  Being 
myself  one  of  the  laziest  of  mortals,  I  had  altogether  too  much 
fellow-feeling  for  the  lazy  ;  and  when  poor,  shiftless  dogs  put 
stones  at  the  bottom  of  their  cotton-baskets  to  make  them  weigh 
heavier,  or  filled  their  sacks  with  dirt,  with  cotton  at  the  top,  it 
seemed  so  exactly  like  what  I  should  do  if  I  were  they,  I 
could  n't  and  would  n't  have  them  flogged  for  it.  Well,  of 
course,  there  was  an  end  of  plantation  discipline  ;  and  Alf  and 
I  came  to  about  the  same  point  that  I  and  my  respected  father 
did,  years  before.  So  he  told  me  that  I  was  a  womanish  senti 
mentalist,  and  would  never  do  for  business  life ;  and  advised  me 
to  take  the  bank-stock  and  the  New  Orleans  family  mansion, 
and  go  to  writing  poetry,  and  let  him  manage  the  plantation. 
So  we  parted,  and  I  came  here." 

"  But  why  did  n't  you  free  your  slaves  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  n't  up  to  that.  To  hold  them  as  tools  for 
money-making,  I  could  not ;  —  have  them  to  help  spend  money, 
you  know,  did  n't  look  quite  so  ugly  to  me.  Some  of  them  were 
old  house-servants,  to  whom  I  was  much  attached;  and  the 
younger  ones  were  children  to  the  old.  All  were  well  satisfied 
to  be  as  they  were."  He  paused,  and  walked  reflectively  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"  There  was,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  a  time  in  my  life  when  I  had 
plans  and  hopes  of  doing  something  in  this  world,  more  than 
to  float  and  drift.  I  had  vague,  indistinct  yearnings  to  be  a 
sort  of  emancipator,  —  to  free  my  native  land  from  this  spot 
and  stain.  All  young  men  have  had  such  fever-fits,  I  suppose, 
some  time,  —  but  then  "  — 

"  Why  did  n't  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia  ;  —  "  you  ought  not 
to  put  your  hand  to  the  plough,  and  look  back." 

"  Oh,  well,  things  did  n't  go  with  me  as  1  expected,  and  I  got 
the  despair  of  living  that  Solomon  did.  I  suppose  it  was  a 
necessary  incident  to  wisdom  in  us  both;  but,  some  how  or 
other,  instead  of  being  actor  and  regenerator  in  society,  I  be 
came  a  piece  of  drift-wood,  and  have  been  floating  and  eddying 
about,  ever  since.  Alfred  scolds  me,  every  time  we  meet;  and 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  257 

he  has  the  better  of  me,  I  grant,  —  for  he  really  does  some 
thing  ;  his  life  is  a  logical  result  of  his  opinions,  and  mine  is  a 
contemptible  non  sequitur." 

"  My  dear  cousin,  can  you  be  satisfied  with  such  a  way  of 
spending  your  probation  ?  " 

u  Satisfied  !  Was  I  not  just  telling  you  I  despised  it  ?  But, 
then,  to  come  back  to  this  point,  —  we  were  on  this  liberation 
business.  I  don't  think  my  feelings  about  slavery  are  peculiar. 
I  find  many  men  who,  in  their  hearts,  think  of  it  just  as  I  do. 
The  land  groans  under  it ;  and,  bad  as  it  is  for  the  slave,  it  is 
worse,  if  anything,  for  the  master.  It  takes  no  spectacles  to 
see  that  a  great  class  of  vicious,  improvident,  degraded  people, 
among  us,  are  an  evil  to  us,  as  well  as  to  themselves.  The  cap 
italist  and  aristocrat  of  England  cannot  feel  that  as  we  do,  be 
cause  they  do  not  mingle  with  the  class  they  degrade  as  we  do. 
They  are  in  our  houses ;  they  are  the  associates  of  our  children, 
and  they  form  their  minds  faster  than  we  can  ;  for  they  are  a 
race  that  children  always  will  cling  to  and  assimilate  with.  If 
Eva,  now,  was  not  more  angel  than  ordinary,  she  would  bo 
ruined.  We  might  as  well  allow  the  small-pox  to  run  among 
them,  and  think  our  children  would  not  take  it,  as  to  let  them 
be  uninstructed  and  vicious,  and  think  our  children  will  not  be 
affected  by  that.  Yet  our  laws  positively  and  utterly  forbid  any 
efficient  general  educational  system,  and  they  do  it  wisely,  too ; 
for,  just  begin  and  thoroughly  educate  one  generation,  and  the 
whole  thing  would  be  blown  sky  high.  If  we  did  not  give  them 
liberty,  they  would  take  it." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  will  be  the  end  of  this  ?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

"  I  don't  know.  One  thing  is  certain,  —  that  there  is  a  mus 
tering  among  the  masses,  the  world  over  ;  and  there  is  a  dies 
irce  coming  on,  sooner  or  later.  The  same  thing  is  working  in 
Europe,  in  England,  and  in  this  country.  My  mother  used  to 
tell  me  of  a  millennium  that  was  coming,  when  Christ  should 
reign,  and  all  men  should  be  free  and  happy.  And  she  taught 
me,  when  I  was  a  boy,  to  pray,  *  Thy  kingdom  come.'  Some- 
times  I  think  all  this  sighing,  and  groaning,  and  stirring  among 
the  dry  bones  foretells  what  she  used  to  tell  me  was  coming. 
But  who  may  abide  the  day  of  his  appearing  ?  " 


258  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"Augustine,  sometimes  I  think  you  are  not  far  from  the 
kingdom,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  laying  down  her  knitting,  and 
looking  anxiously  at  her  cousin. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  good  opinion  ;  but  it  's  up  and  down 
with  me,  —  up  to  heaven's  gate  in  theory,  down  in  earth's  dust 
in  practice.  But  there  's  the  tea-bell,  —  do  let  's  go,  —  and 
don't  say,  now,  I  have  n't  had  one  downright  serious  talk,  for 
once  in  my  life." 

At  table,  Marie  alluded  to  the  incident  of  Prue.  "  I  suppose 
you  '11  think,  cousin,"  she  said,  "  that  we  are  all  barbarians." 

"  I  think  that  's  a  barbarous  thing,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  but 
I  don't  think  you  are  all  barbarians." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Marie,  "  I  know  it  's  impossible  to  get 
along  with  some  of  these  creatures.  They  are  so  bad  they 
ought  not  to  live.  I  don't  feel  a  particle  of  sympathy  for  such 
cases.  If  they  'd  only  behave  themselves,  it  would  not  happen." 

"  But  mamma,"  said  Eva,  "  the  poor  creature  was  unhappy ; 
that  's  what  made  her  drink." 

"  Oh,  fiddlestick  !  as  if  that  were  any  excuse  !  I  'm  unhappy, 
very  often.  I  presume,"  she  said,  pensively,  "  that  I  've  had 
greater  trials  than  ever  she  had.  It  's  just  because  they  are  so 
bad.  There  's  some  of  them  that  you  cannot  break  in  by  any 
kind  of  severity.  I  remember  father  had  a  man  that  was  so 
lazy  he  would  run  away  just  to  get  rid  of  work,  and  lie  round 
in  %  the  swamps,  stealing  and  doing  all  sorts  of  horrid  things. 
That  man  was  caught  and  whipped,  time  and  again,  and  it  never 
did  him  any  good ;  and  the  last  time  he  crawled  off,  though  he 
could  n't  but  just  go,  and  died  in  the  swamp.  There  was  no 
sort  of  reason  for  it,  for  father's  hands  were  always  treated 
kindly." 

"  I  broke  a  fellow  in  once,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  that  all  the  over 
seers  and  masters  had  tried  their  hands  on  in  vain." 

"  You !  "  said  Marie  ;  "  well,  I  'd  be  glad  to  know  when  you 
ever  did  anything  of  the  sort." 

"  Well,  he  was  a  powerful,  gigantic  fellow,  —  a  native-born 
African  ;  and  he  appeared  to  have  the  rude  instinct  of  freedom 
in  him  to  an  uncommon  degree.  He  was  a  regular  African 
lion.  They  called  him  Scipio.  Nobody  could  do  anything  with 
him ;  and  he  was  sold  round  from  overseer  to  overseer,  till  at 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  259 

last  Alfred  bought  him,  because  he  thought  he  could  manage 
him.  Well,  one  day  he  knocked  down  the  overseer,  and  was 
fairly  off  into  the  swamps.  I  was  on  a  visit  to  Alf's  plantation, 
for  it  was  after  we  had  dissolved  partnership.  Alfred  was 
greatly  exasperated ;  but  I  told  him  that  it  was  his  own  fault, 
and  laid  him  any  wager  that  I  could  break  the  man  ;  and  finally 
it  was  agreed  that,  if  I  caught  him,  I  should  have  him  to  ex 
periment  on.  So  they  mustered  out  a  party  of  some  six  or 
seven,  with  guns  and  dogs,  for  the  hunt.  People,  you  know, 
can  get  up  just  as  much  enthusiasm  in  hunting  a  man  as  a  deer, 
if  it  is  only  customary ;  in  fact,  I  got  a  little  excited  myself, 
though  I  had  only  put  in  as  a  sort  of  mediator,  in  case  he  was 
caught. 

"  Well,  the  dogs  bayed  and  howled,  and  we  rode  and  scam 
pered,  and  finally  we  started  him.  He  ran  and  bounded  like  a 
buck,  and  kept  us  well  in  the  rear  for  some  time  ;  but  at  last 
he  got  caught  in  an  impenetrable  thicket  of  cane  ;  then  he 
turned  to  bay,  and  I  tell  you  he  fought  the  dogs  right  gallantly. 
He  dashed  them  to  right  and  left,  and  actually  killed  three  of 
them  with  only  his  naked  fists,  when  a  shot  from  a  gun  brought 
him  down,  and  he  fell,  wounded  and  bleeding,  almost  at  my 
feet.  The  poor  fellow  looked  up  at  me  with  manhood  and 
despair  both  in  his  eye.  I  kept  back  the  dogs  and  the  party, 
as  they  came  pressing  up,  and  claimed  him  as  my  prisoner.  It 
was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  them  from  shooting  him,  in  the  flush 
of  success ;  but  I  persisted  in  my  bargain,  and  Alfred  sold  him 
to  me.  Well,  I  took  him  in  hand,  and  in  one  fortnight  I  had 
him  tamed  down  as  submissive  and  tractable  as  heart  could 
desire." 

"  What  in  the  world  did  you  do  to  him  ?  "  said  Marie. 

"  Well,  it  was  quite  a  simple  process.  I  took  him  to  my  own 
room,  had  a  good  bed  made  for  him,  dressed  his  wounds,  ani 
tended  him  myself,  until  he  got  fairly  on  his  feet  again.  And, 
in  process  of  time,  I  had  free  papers  made  out  for  him,  and  told 
him  he  might  go  where  he  liked." 

"And  did  he  go  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"No.  The  foolish  fellow  tore  the  paper  in  two,  and  abso 
lutely  refused  to  leave  me.  I  never  had  a  braver,  better  fellow, 

trusty  and  true  as  steel.     He  embraced  Christianity  after- 


260  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

wards,  and  became  as  gentle  as  a  child.  He  used  to  oversee 
my  place  on  the  lake,  and  did  it  capitally,  too.  I  lost  him  the 
first  cholera  season.  In  fact,  he  laid  down  his  life  for  me.  For 
I  was  sick,  almost  to  death  ;  and  whyn,  through  the  panic,  every 
body  else  fled,  Scipio  worked  for  me  like  a  giant,  and  actually 
brought  me  back  into  life  again.  But,  poor  fellow !  he  was 
taken,  right  after,  and  there  was  no  saving  him.  I  never  felt 
anybody's  loss  more." 

Eva  had  come  gradually  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  father,  a§ 
he  told  the  story,  —  her  small  lips  apart,  her  eyes  wide  and 
earnest  with  absorbing  interest. 

As  he  finished,  she  suddenly  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  convulsively. 

"Eva,  dear  child!  what  is  the  matter?"  said  St.  Clare,  as 
the  child's  small  frame  trembled  and  shook  with  the  violence 
of  her  feelings.  "  This  child,"  he  added,  "  ought  not  to  hear 
any  of  this  kind  of  thing,  - —  she  's  nervous." 

"No,  papa,  I  'm  not  nervous,"  said  Eva,  controlling  herself 
tsuddenly,  with  a  strength  of  resolution  singular  in  such  a  child 
11 1  'm  not  nervous,  but  these  things  sink  into  my  heart." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Eva?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  papa.  I  think  a  great  many  thoughts. 
"Perhaps  some  day  I  shall  tell  you." 

"  Well,  think  away,  dear,  —  only  don't  cry  and  worry  your 
papa,"  said  St.  Clare.  "Look  here, — see  what  a  beautiful 
peach  I  have  got  for  you  !  " 

Eva  took  it,  and  smiled,  though  there  was  still  a  nervous 
twitching  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  Come,  look  at  the  gold-fish,"  said  St.  Clare,  taking  her  hand 
and  stepping  on  to  the  veranda.  A  few  moments,  and  merry 
laughs  were  heard  through  the  silken  curtains,  as  Eva  and 
St.  Clare  were  pelting  each  other  with  roses,  and  chasing  each 
other  among  the  alleys  of  the  court. 


There  is  danger  that  our  humble  friend  Tom  bt  neglected 
amid  the  adventures  of  the  higher  born  ;  but  if  our  readers  will 
accompany  us  up  to  a  little  loft  over  the  stable,  they  may,  per- 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  261 

haps,  learn  a  little  of  his  affairs.  It  was  a  decent  room,  con 
taining  a  bed,  a  chair,  and  a  small,  rough  stand,  where  lay 
Tom's  Bible  and  hymn-book  ;  and  where  he  sits,  at  present, 
with  his  slate  before  him,  intent  on  something  that  seems  to  cost 
him  a  great  deal  of  anxious  thought. 

The  fact  was,  that  Tom's  home-yearnings  had  become  so 
strong,  that  he  had  begged  a  sheet  of  writing-paper  of  Eva,  and 
mustering  up  all  his  small  stock  of  literary  attainment  acquired 
by  Mas'r  George's  instructions,  he  conceived  the  bold  idea  of 
writing  a  letter  ;  and  he  was  busy  now,  on  his  slate,  getting  out 
his  first  draft.  Tom  was  in  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  for  the 
forms  of  some  of  the  letters  he  had  forgotten  entirely ;  and  of 
what  he  did  remember,  he  did  not  know  exactly  which  to  use. 
And  while  he  was  working,  and  breathing  very  hard,  in  his  ear 
nestness,  Eva  alighted,  like  a  bird,  on  the  round  of  his  chair  be 
hind  him,  and  peeped  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Tom !  what  funny  things  you  are  making 
there  !  " 

"  I  'm  trying  to  write  to  my  poor  old  woman,  Miss  Eva,  and 
my  little  chil'en,"  said  Tom,  drawing  the  back  of  his  hand  over 
his  eyes  ;  ';  but,  some  how,  I  'm  'feard  I  shan't  make  it  out." 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  Tom  !  I  've  learnt  to  write  some. 
Last  year  I  could  make  all  the  letters,  but  I  'm  afraid  I  've  for 
gotten." 

So  Eva  put  her  little  golden  head  close  to  his,  and  the  two  com 
menced  a  grave  and  anxious  discussion,  each  one  equally  ear 
nest,  and  about  equally  ignorant ;  and,  with  a  deal  of  consulting 
and  advising  over  every  word,  the  composition  began,  as  they 
both  felt  very  sanguine,  to  look  quite  like  writing. 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Tom,  it  really  begins  to  look  beautiful,"  said 
Eva,  gazing  delightedly  on  it.  "  How  pleased  your  wife  '11  be, 
and  the  poor  little  children !  Oh,  it 's  a  shame  you  ever  had  to 
go  away  from  them !  I  mean  to  ask  papa  to  let  you  go  back, 
some  time." 

"  Missis  said  that  she  would  send  down  money  for  me,  as  soon 
as  they  could  get  it  together,"  said  Tom.  "  I  'm  'spectin'  she 
will.  Young  Mas'r  George,  he  said  he  'd  come  for  me  ;  and  he 
gave  me  this  yer  dollar  as  a  sign  ;  "  and  Tom  drew  from  under 
his  clothes  the  precious  dollar. 


262  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  Oh,  he  '11  certainly  come,  then !  "  said  Eva.  "  I  'm  s« 
glad ! " 

"  And  I  wanted  to  send  a  letter,  you  know,  to  let  'em  know 
whar  I  was,  and  tell  poor  Chloe  that  I  was  well  off,  —  'cause 
she  felt  so  drefful,  poor  soul !  " 

"  I  say,  Tom  !  "  said  St.  Clare's  voice,  coming  in  the  door  at 
this  moment. 

Tom  and  Eva  both  started. 

"  What 's  here  ?  "  said  St.  Clare,  coming  up  and  looking  at  the 
slate. 

"  Oh,  it 's  Tom's  letter.  I  'm  helping  him  to  write  it,"  said 
Eva  ;  "  is  n't  it  nice  ?  " 

"  I  would  n't  discourage  either  of  you,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  but 
I  rather  think,  Tom,  you  'd  better  get  me  to  write  your  letter  for 
you.  I  11  do  it,  when  I  come  home  from  my  ride." 

"  It 's  very  important  he  should  write,"  said  Eva,  "  because 
his  mistress  is  going  to  send  down  money  to  redeem  him,  you 
know,  papa  ;  he  told  me  they  told  him  so." 

St.  Clare  thought,  in  his  heart,  that  this  was  probably  only 
one  of  those  things  which  good-natured  owners  say  to  their  ser 
vants,  to  alleviate  their  horror  of  being  sold,  without  any  inten 
tion  of  fulfilling  the  expectation  thus  excited.  But  he  did  not 
make  any  audible  comment  upon  it,  —  only  ordered  Tom  to  get 
the  horses  out  for  a  ride. 

Tom's  letter  was  written  in  due  form  for  him  that  evening, 
and  safely  lodged  in  the  post-office. 

Miss  Ophelia  still  persevered  in  her  labors  in  the  housekeep 
ing  line.  It  was  universally  agreed,  among  all  the  household, 
from  Dinah  down  to  the  youngest  urchin,  that  Miss  Ophelia  was 
decidedly  "  curis," — a  term  by  which  a  southern  servant  im 
plies  that  his  or  her  betters  don't  exactly  suit  them. 

The  higher  circle  in  the  family  —  to  wit,  Adolph,  Jane,  and 
Rosa  —  agreed  that  she  was  no  lady  ;  ladies  never  kept  work 
ing  about  as  she  did  ;  —  that  she  had  no  air  at  all;  and  they 
were  surprised  that  she  should  be  any  relation  of  the  St.  Clares. 
Even  Marie  declared  that  it  was  absolutely  fatiguing  to  see 
Cousin  Ophelia  always  so  busy.  And,  in  fact,  Miss  Ophelia's 
industry  was  so  incessant  as  to  lay  some  foundation  for  the  com- 
plaint.  She  sewed  and  stitched  away,  from  daylight  till  dark. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  263 

with  the  energy  of  one  who  is  pressed  on  by  some  immediate 
urgency;  and  then,  when  the  light  faded,  and  the  work  was 
folded  away,  with  one  turn  out  came  the  ever-ready  knitting- 
work,  and  there  she  was  again,  going  on  as  briskly  as  ever.  It 
really  "vas  a  labor  to  see  her. 


264  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 


CHAPTER   XX. 

TOPSY. 

ONE  morning,  while  Miss  Ophelia  was  busy  in  some  of  her 
domestic  cares,  St.  Clare's  voice  was  heard,  calling  her  at  tht 
foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Come  down  here,  cousin  ;  I  've  something  to  show  you." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  down,  with  her 
sewing  in  her  hand. 

"  I  've  made  a  purchase  for  your  department,  —  see  here," 
said  St.  Clare ;  and,  with  the  word,  he  pulled  along  a  little 
negro  girl,  about  eight  or  nine  years  of  age. 

She  was  one  of  the  blackest  of  her  race ;  and  her  round,  shin 
ing  eyes,  glittering  as  glass  beads,  moved  with  quick  and  rest 
less  glances  over  everything  in  the  room.  Her  mouth  half  open 
with  astonishment  at  the  wonders  of  the  new  Mas'r's  parlor, 
displayed  a  white  and  brilliant  set  of  teeth.  Her  woolly  hair 
was  braided  in  sundry  little  tails,  which  stuck  out  in  every  di 
rection.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  an  odd  mixture  of 
shrewdness  and  cunning,  over  which  was  oddly  drawn,  like  a 
kind  of  veil,  an  expression  of  the  most  doleful  gravity  and  so 
lemnity.  She  was  dressed  in  a  single  filthy,  ragged  garment, 
made  of  bagging  j  and  stood  with  her  hands  demurely  folded 
before  her.  Altogether,  there  was  something  odd  and  goblin- 
like  about  her  appearance,  —  something,  as  Miss  Ophelia  after 
wards  said,  "  so  heathenish,"  as  to  inspire  that  good  lady  with 
utter  dismay  ;  and,  turning  to  St.  Clare,  she  said,  — 

"'  Augustine,  what  in  the  world  have  you  brought  that  thing 
here  for  ?  " 

"  For  you  to  educate,  to  be  sure,  and  train  in  the  way  she 
should  go.  1  thought  she  was  rather  a  funny  specimen  in  the 
Jim  Crow  line.  Here,  Topsy,"  he  added,  giving  a  whistle,  as  a 
man  would  to  call  the  attention  of  a  dog,  "  give  us  a  song,  now, 
and  show  us  some  of  your  dancing." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  265 

The  black,  glassy  eyes  glittered  with  a  kind  of  wicked  droll 
ery,  and  the  thing  struck  up,  in  a  clear  shrill  voice,  an  odd 
negro  melody,  to  which  she  kept  time  with  her  hands  and  feet, 
spinning  round,  clapping  her  hands,  knocking  her  knees  together, 
in  a  wild,  fantastic  sort  of  time,  and  producing  in  her  throat  all 
those  odd  guttural  sounds  which  distinguish  the  native  music  of 
her  race  ;  and  finally,  turning  a  somerset  or  two,  and  giving 
a  prolonged  closing  note,  as  odd  and  unearthly  as  that  of  a 
steam-Avhistle,  she  came  suddenly  down  on  the  carpet,  and  stood 
with  her  hands  folded,  and  a  most  sanctimonious  expression  of 
meekness  and  solemnity  over  her  face,  only  broken  by  the 
cunning  glances  which  she  shot  askance  from  the  corners  of  her 
eyes. 

Miss  Ophelia  stood  silent,  perfectly  paralyzed  with  amaze 
ment. 

St.  Clare,  like  a  mischievous  fellow  as  he  was,  appeared  to 
enjoy  her  astonishment ;  and,  addressing  the  child  again,  said,  — 

"  Topsy,  this  is  your  new  mistress.  I  'm  going  to  give  you 
up  to  her  ;  see,  now,  that  you  behave  yourself." 

"Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Topsy,  with  sanctimonious  gravity,  her 
wicked  eyes  twinkling  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  're  going  to  be  good,  Topsy,  you  understand,"  said 
St.  Clare. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Topsy,  with  another  twinkle,  her 
hands  still  devoutly  folded. 

"  Now,  Augustine,  what  upon  earth  is  this  for  ?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia.  "  Your  house  is  so  full  of  these  little  plagues,  now, 
that  a  body  can't  set  down"  their  foot  without  treading  on  'em. 
I  get  up  in  the  morning,  and  find  one  asleep  behind  the  door, 
and  see  one  black  head  poking  out  from  under  the  table,  one 
lying  on  the  door-mat,  —  and  they  are  mopping  and  mowing 
and  grinning  between  all  the  railings,  and  tumbling  over  the 
kitchen  floor !  What  on  earth  did  you  want  to  bring  this  one 
for  ?  " 

"  For  you  to  educate,  —  did  n't  I  tell  you  ?  You  're  always 
preaching  about  educating.  I  thought  I  would  make  you  a 
present  of  a  fresh-caught  specimen,  and  let  you  try  your  hand 
on  her,  and  bring  her  up  in  the  way  she  should  go." 

"  I  don't  want  her,  I  am  sure  ;  —  T  have-  more  to  do  with  'en? 
now  than  I  want  to." 


266  UNCLE   TOM"S   CABIN;   OR, 

"  That  's  you  Christians,  all  over  !  —  you  '11  get  up  a  society, 
and  get  some  poor  missionary  to  spend  all  his  days  among  just 
such  heathen.  But  let  me  see  one  of  you  that  would  take  one 
into  your  house  with  you,  and  take  the  labor  of  their  conversion 
on  yourselves !  No ;  when  it  comes  to  that,  they  are  dirty  and 
disagreeable,  and  it 's  too  much  care,  and  so  on." 

"  Augustine,  you  know  I  did  n't  think  of  it  in  that  light," 
said  Miss  Ophelia,  evidently  softening.  "  Well,  it  might  be  a 
real  missionary  work,"  said  she,  looking  rather  more  favorably 
on  the  child. 

St.  Clare  had  touched  the  right  string.  Miss  Ophelia's  con 
scientiousness  was  ever  on  the  alert.  "  But,"  she  added,  "  I 
really  did  n't  see  the  need  of  buying  this  one ;  —  there  are 
enough  now.  in  your  house,  to  take  all  my  time  and  skill." 

"  Well,  then,  cousin,"  said  St.  Clare,  drawing  her  aside,  "  I 
ought  to  beg  your  pardon  for  my  good-for-nothing  speeches. 
You  are  so  good,  after  all,  that  there  's  no  sense  in  them.  Why, 
the  fact  is,  this  concern  belonged  to  a  couple  of  drunken  crea 
tures  that  keep  a  low  restaurant  that  I  have  to  pass  by  every 
day,  and  I  was  tired  of  hearing  her  screaming,  and  them  beat 
ing  and  swearing  at  her.  She  looked  bright  and  funny,  too, 
as  if  something  might  be  made  of  her,  —  so  I  bought  her,  and 
I  '11  give  her  to  you.  Try,  now,  and  give  her  a  good  orthodox 
New  England  bringing  up,  and  see  what  it  '11  make  of  her. 
You  know  I  have  n't  any  gift  that  way  ;  but  I  'd  like'you  to  try." 

u  Well,  I  '11  do  what  I  can,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ;  and  she 
approached  her  new  subject  very  much  as  a  person  might  be 
supposed  to  approach  a  black  spider,  supposing  them  to  have 
benevolent  designs  toward  it. 

"  She  's  dreadfully  dirty,  and  half  naked,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  take  her  down  stairs,  and  make  some  of  them  clean 
and  clothe  her  up." 

Miss  Ophelia  carried  her  to  the  kitchen  regions. 

"  Don't  see  what  Mas'r  St.  Clare  wants  of  'nother  nigger  !  " 
said  Dinah,  surveying  the  new  arrival  with  no  friendly  air. 
"  Won't  have  her  round  under  my  feet,  /  know  !  " 

"  Pah  !  "  said  Rosa  and  Jane,  with  supreme  disgust ;  "  let  her 
keep  out  of  our  way  !  What  in  the  world  Mas'r  wanted  another 
s>£  these  low  niggers  for,  I  can't  see !  " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  267 

"  You  go  'long  I  No  more  nigger  dan  you  be,  Miss  Rosa," 
laid  Dinah,  who  felt  this  last  remark  a  reflection  on  herself. 
"  You  seem  to  link  yourself  white  folks.  You  an't  nerry  one, 
black  nor  white.  I  'd  like  to  be  one  or  turrer." 

Miss  Ophelia  saw  that  there  was  nobody  in  the  camp  that 
would  undertake  to  oversee  the  cleansing  and  dressing  of  the 
new  arrival ;  and  so  she  was  forced  to  do  it  herself,  with  some 
very  ungracious  and  reluctant  assistance  from  Jane. 

It  is  not  for  ears  polite  to  hear  the  particulars  of  the  first 
toilet  of  a  neglected,  abused  child.  In  fact,  in  this  world,  mul 
titudes  must  live  and  die  in  a  state  that  it  would  be  too  great 
a  shock  to  the  nerves  of  their  fellow-mortals  even  to  hear  de 
scribed.  Miss  Ophelia  had  a  good,  strong,  practical  deal  ot 
resolution  ;  and  she  went  through  all  the  disgusting  details  with 
heroic  thoroughness,  though,  it  must  be  confessed,  with  no  very 
gracious  air,  —  for  endurance  was  the  utmost  to  which  her  prin 
ciples  could  bring  her.  When  she  saw,  on  the  back  and  shoul 
ders  of  the  child,  great  welts  and  calloused  spots,  ineffaceable 
marks  of  the  system  under  which  she  had  grown  up  thus  far, 
her  heart  became  pitiful  within  her. 

"  See  there  !  "  said  Jane,  pointing  to  the  marks,  "  don't  that 
show  she  's  a  limb  ?  We  '11  have  fine  works  with  her,  I  reckon. 
I  hate  these  nigger  young  uns  !  so  disgusting !  I  wonder  that 
Mas'r  would  buy  her  !  " 

The  "  young  un  "  alluded  to  heard  all  these  comments  with 
the  subdued  and  doleful  air  which  seemed  habitual  to  her,  only 
scanning,  with  a  keen  and  furtive  glance  of  her  flickering  eyes, 
the  ornaments  which  Jane  wore  in  her  ears.  When  arrayed  at 
last  in  a  suit  of  decent  and  whole  clothing,  her  hair  cropped 
short  to  her  head,  Miss  Ophelia,  with  some  satisfaction,  said  she 
looked  more  Christian-like  than  she  did,  and  in  her  own  mind 
began  to  mature  some  plans  for  her  instruction. 

Sitting  down  before  her,  she  began  to  question  her, 

"  How  old  are  you,  Topsy  ?  " 

"  Dunno,  Missis,"  said  the  image,  with  a  grin  that  showed  all 
tier  teeth. 

"  Don't  know  how  old  you  are  ?  Did  n't  anybody  ever  tell 
you  ?  Who  was  your  mother  ?  " 

'*  Never  had  none  !  "  said  the  child,  with  another  grin. 


268  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  Never  had  any  mother  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  When 
were  you  born  ?  " 

"  Never  was  born !  "  persisted  Topsy,  with  another  grin,  that 
looked  so  goblin-like,  that,  if  Miss  Ophelia  had  been  at  all  ner 
vous,  she  might  have  fancied  that  she  had  got  hold  of  some 
sooty  gnome  from  the  land  of  Diablerie  ;  but  Miss  Ophelia  was 
not  nervous,  but  plain  and  business-like,  and  she  said,  with  some 
sternness,  — 

"  You  must  n't  answer  me  in  that  way,  child  ;  I  'm  not  play 
ing  with  you.  Tell  me  where  you  were  born,  and  who  your 
father  and  mother  were." 

"Never  was  born,"  reiterated  the  creature,  more  emphat 
ically  ;  "  never  had  no  father  nor  mother,  nor  nothin'.  I  was 
raised  by  a  speculator,  with  lots  of  others.  Old  Aunt  Sue  used 
to  take  car  on  us." 

The  child  was  evidently  sincere ;  and  Jane,  breaking  into  a 
short  laugh,  said,  — 

"  Laws,  Missis,  there  's  heaps  of  'em.  Speculators  buys  'em 
up  cheap,  when  they  's  little,  and  gets  'em  raised  for  market." 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  with  your  master  and  mistress  ?  " 

"  Dunno,  Missis." 

"  Is  it  a  year,  or  more,  or  less  ?  " 

"Dunno,  Missis." 

"  Laws,  Missis,  those  low  negroes,  —  they  can't  tell ;  they 
don't  know  anything  about  time,"  said  Jane ;  "they  don't  know 
what  a  year  is;  they  don't  know  their  own  ages." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  anything  about  God,  Topsy  ?  " 

The  child  looked  bewildered,  but  grinned  as  usual. 

"  Do  you  know  who  made  you  ?  " 

"  Nobody,  as  I  knows  on,"  said  the  child,  with  a  short  laugh. 

The  idea  appeared  to  amuse  her  considerably  ;  for  her  eyes 
twinkled,  and  she  added,  — 

"  I  spect  I  grow'd.     Don't  think  nobody  never  made  me." 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  sew  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  who  thought 
she  would  turn  her  inquiries  to  something  more  tangible. 

"No,  Missis." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  —  what  did  you  do  for  your  master  and 
mistress  ?  " 

"  Fetch  water,  and  wash  dishes,  and  rub  knives,  and  wait  OB 
folks." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  269 

"  Were  they  good  to  you  ?  " 

"Spect  they  was,"  said  the  child,  scanning  Miss  Ophelia 
cunningly. 

Miss  Ophelia  rose  from  this  encouraging  colloquy  ;  St.  Clare 
\vas  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"  You  find  virgin  soil  there,  cousin ;  put  in  your  own  ideas, 
—  you  won't  find  many  to  pull  up." 

Miss  Ophelia's  ideas  of  education,  like  all  her  other  ideas, 
were  very  set  and  definite ;  and  of  the  kind  that  prevailed  in 
New  England  a  century  ago,  and  which  are  still  preserved  in 
some  very  retired  and  unsophisticated  parts,  where  there  are  no 
railroads.  As  nearly  as  could  be  expressed,  they  could  be  com 
prised  in  very  few  words  :  to  teach  them  to  mind  when  they 
were  spoken  to ;  to  teach  them  the  catechism,  sewing,  and  read 
ing  ;  and  to  whip  them  if  they  told  lies.  And  though,  of  course, 
in  the  flood  of  light  that  is  now  poured  on  education,  these  are 
left  far  away  in  the  rear,  yet  it  is  an  undisputed  fact  that  our 
grandmothers  raised  some  tolerably  fair  men  and  women  under 
this  regime,  as  many  of  us  can  remember  and  testify.  At  all 
events,  Miss  Ophelia  knew  of  nothing  else  to  do  ;  and,  therefore, 
applied  her  mind  to  her  heathen  with  the  best  diligence  she 
could  command. 

The  child  was  announced  and  considered  in  the  family  as 
Miss  Ophelia's  girl ;  and,  as  she  was  looked  upon  with  no 
gracious  eye  in  the  kitchen,  Miss  Ophelia  resolved  to  confine 
her  sphere  of  operation  and  instruction  chiefly  to  her  own  cham 
ber.  With  a  self-sacrifice  which  some  of  our  readers  will 
appreciate,  she  resolved,  instead  of  comfortably  making  her  own 
bed,  sweeping  and  dusting  her  own  chamber,  —  which  she  had 
hitherto  done,  in  utter  scorn  of  all  offers  of  help  from  the 
chambermaid  of  the  establishment,  —  to  condemn  herself  to  the 
martyrdom  of  instructing  Topsy  to  perform  these  operations,  — 
ah,  woe  the  day !  Did  any  of  our  readers  ever  do  the  same, 
they  will  appreciate  the  amount  of  her  self-sacrifice. 

Miss  Ophelia  began  with  Topsy  by  taking  her  into  her  cham 
ber,  the  first  morning,  and  solemnly  commencing  a  course  of 
instruction  in  the  art  and  mystery  of  bed-making. 

Behold,  then,  Topsy,  washed  and  shorn  of  all  the  little 
braided  tails  wherein  her  heart  had  delighted,  arrayed  in  a 


270  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB, 

clean  gown,  with  well-starched  apron,  standing  reverently  before 
Miss  Ophelia,  with  an  expression  of  solemnity  well  befitting  a 
funeral. 

"  Now,  Topsy,  I  'm  going  to  show  you  just  how  my  bed  is  to 
be  made.  I  am  very  particular  about  my  bed.  You  must  learn 
exactly  how  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Topsy,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  face  of 
woful  earnestness. 

"  Now,  Topsy,  look  here  ;  —  this  is  the  hem  of  the  sheet,  — 
this  is  the  right  side  of  the  sheet,  and  this  is  the  wrong ;  —  will 
you  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Topsy,  with  another  sigh. 

"  Well,  now,  the  under  sheet  you  must  bring  over  the  bolster, 
—  so,  —  and  tuck  it  clear  down  under  the  mattress  nice  and 
smooth,  —  so,  —  do  you  see  ?  w 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Topsy,  with  profound  attention. 

"  But  the  upper  sheet,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  must  be  brought 
down  in  this  way,  and  tucked  under  firm  and  smooth  at  the 
foot,  —  so,  —  the  narrow  hem  at  the  foot." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Topsy,  as  before  ;  but  we  will  add,  what 
Miss  Ophelia  did  not  see,  that,  during  the  time  when  the  good 
lady's  back  was  turned,  in  the  zeal  of  her  manipulations,  the 
young  disciple  had  contrived  to  snatch  a  pair  of  gloves  and  a 
ribbon,  which  she  had  adroitly  slipped  into  her  sleeves,  and 
stood  with  her  hands  dutifully  folded,  as  before. 

"Now,  Topsy,  let's  see  you  do  this,"  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
pulling  off  the  clothes,  and  seating  herself. 

Topsy,  with  great  gravity  and  adroitness,  went  through  the 
exercise  completely  to  Miss  Ophelia's  satisfaction;  smoothing 
the  sheets,  patting  out  every  wrinkle,  and  exhibiting,  through 
the  whole  process,  a  gravity  and  seriousness  with  which  her 
instructress  was  greatly  edified.  By  an  unlucky  slip,  however, 
a  fluttering  fragment  of  the  ribbon  hung  out  of  one  of  her 
sleeves,  just  as  she  was  finishing,  and  caught  Miss  Ophelia's 
attention.  Instantly  she  pounced  upon  it.  "What's  this? 
You  naughty,  wicked  child,  —  you  Ve  been  stealing  this  !  " 

The  ribbon  was  pulled  out  of  Topsy's  own  sleeve,  yet  was 
she  not  in  the  least  disconcerted  ;  she  only  looked  at  it  with  an 
air  of  the  most  surprised  and  unconscious  innocence. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  271 

"Laws!  why,  that  ar 's  Miss  Feely's  ribbon,  an't  it?  How 
could  it  a  got  caught  in  my  sleeve  ?  " 

"Topsy,  you  naughty  girl,  don't  you  tell  me  a  lie, — you  stola 
that  ribbon ! " 

"  Missis,  I  declar  for  't,  I  did  n't;  — never  seed  it  till  dis  yer 
blessed  minnit." 

"  Topsy,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  don't  you  know  it 's  wicked  to 
teU  lies  ?  " 

"  I  never  tells  no  lies,  Miss  Feely,"  said  Topsy,  with  virtuous 
gravity ;  "  its  jist  the  truth  I  've  been  a  tellin'  now,  and  an't 
nothin'  else." 

"  Topsy,  I  shall  have  to  whip  you,  if  you  tell  lies  so." 

"  Laws,  Missis,  if  you  's  to  whip  all  day,  could  n't  say  no 
other  way,"  said  Topsy,  beginning  to  blubber.  "  I  never  seed 
dat  ar,  —  it  must  a  got  caught  in  my  sleeve.  Miss  Feely  must 
have  left  it  on  the  bed,  and  it  got  caught  in  the  clothes,  and  so 
got  in  my  sleeve." 

Miss  Ophelia  was  so  indignant  at  the  barefaced  lie,  that  she 
caught  the  child,  and  shook  her. 

"  Don't  you  tell  me  that  again !  " 

The  shake  brought  the  gloves  on  the  floor,  from  the  other 
sleeve. 

"  There,  you !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  will  you  tell  me  now, 
you  did  n't  steal  the  ribbon  ?  " 

Topsy  now  confessed  to  the  gloves,  but  still  persisted  in 
denying  the  ribbon. 

"  Now,  Topsy,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  *'  if  you  '11  confess  all 
about  it,  I  won't  whip  you  this  time." 

Thus  adjured,  Topsy  confessed  to  the  ribbon  and  gloves,  with 
woful  protestations  of  penitence. 

"  Well  now,  tell  me.  I  know  you  must  have  taken  other 
things  since  you  have  been  in  the  house,  for  I  let  you  run  about 
all  day  yesterday.  Now,  tell  me  if  you  took  anything,  and  I 
shan't  whip  you." 

"  Laws,  Missis !  I  took  Miss  Eva's  red  thing  she  wars  on  her 
neck." 

"  You  did,  you  naughty  child  \  —Well,  what  else  ?" 

"  I  took  Rosa's  yer-rings,  —  them  red  ones." 

"  Go  bring  them  to  me  this  minute,  both  of  'em." 


UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

"  Laws,  Missis !  I  can't,  —  they  's  burnt  up !  " 

"  Burnt  up !  —  what  a  story !     Go  get  'em,  or  I  '11  whip  you." 

Topsy,  with  loud  protestations,  and  tears,  and  groans,  de 
clared  that  she  could  not.  "  They 's  burnt  up,  —  they  was." 

**  What  did  you  burn  'em  up  for  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  'Cause  I 's  wicked,  —  I  is.  I 's  mighty  wicked,  any  how. 
I  can't  help  it." 

Just  at  this  moment,  Eva  came  innocently  into  the  room, 
with  the  identical  coral  necklace  on  her  nedk. 

"Why,  Eva,  where  did  you  get  your  necklace  ?"  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

u  Get  it  ?     Why,  I  've  had  it  on  all  day,"  said  Eva. 

"  Did  you  have  it  on  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  what  is  funny,  Aunty,  I  had  it  on  all  night.  I 
forgot  to  take  it  off  when  I  went  to  bed." 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  perfectly  bewildered ;  the  more  so,  as 
Rosa,  at  that  instant,  came  into  the  room,  with  a  basket  of 
newly  ironed  linen  poised  on  her  head,  and  the  coral  ear-drops 
shaking  in  her  ears  ! 

"  I  'm  sure  I  can't  tell  anything  what  to  do  with  such  a 
child !  "  she  said,  in  despair.  "  What  in  the  world  did  you  tell 
me  you  took  those  things  for,  Topsy  ?  " 

"  Why,  Missis  said  I  must  'f ess ;  and  I  could  n't  think  of 
nothin'  else  to  'fess,"  said  Topsy,  rubbing  her  eyes. 

"  But,  of  course,  I  did  n't  want  you  to  confess  things  you 
did  n't  do,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ;  "  that 's  telling  a  lie,  just  as 
much  as  the  other." 

"Laws,  now,  is  it?"  said  Topsy,  with  an  air  of  innocent 
wonder. 

"  La,  there  an't  any  such  thing  as  truth  in  that  limb,"  said 
Rosa,  looking  indignantly  at  Topsy.  "  If  I  was  Mas'r  St.  Clare, 
I  'd  whip  her  till  the  blood  run.  I  would,  —  I  'd  let  her  catch 
it." 

"No,  no,  Rosa,"  said  Eva,  with  an  air  of  command,  which 
the  child  could  assume  at  times;  "you  mustn't  talk  so  Rosa, 
I  can't  bear  to  hear  it." 

"  La  sakes  ?  Miss  Eva,  you  's  so  good,  you  don't  know  noth- 
ing  how  to  get  along  with  niggers.  There  's  no  way  but  to  cut 
'em  well  up,  I  tell  ye." 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  278 

"  Rosa !  "  said  Eva,  "  hush !  Don't  you  say  another  word 
of  that  sort ! "  and  the  eye  of  the  child  flashed,  and  her  cheek 
deepened  its  color. 

Rosa  was  cowed"  in  a  moment. 

"  Miss  Eva  has  got  the  St.  Clare  blood  in  her,  that 's  plain. 
She  can  speak,  for  all  the  world,  just  like  her  papa,"  she  said, 
as  she  passed  out  of  the  room. 

Eva  stood  looking  at  Topsy. 

There  stood  the  two  children,  representatives  of  the  two  ex 
tremes  of  society.  The  fair,  high-bred  child,  with  her  golden 
head,  her  deep  eyes,  her  spiritual,  noble  brow,  and  prince-like 
movements ;  and  her  black,  keen,  subtle,  cringing,  yet  acute 
neighbor.  They  stood  the  representatives  of  their  races.  The 
Saxon,  born  of  ages  of  cultivation,, command,  education,  phys 
ical  and  moral  eminence ;  the  Afric,  born  of  ages  of  oppression, 
submission,  ignorance,  toil,  and  vice ! 

Something,  perhaps,  of  such  thoughts  struggled  through  Eva's 
mind.  But  a  child's  thoughts  are  rather  dim,  undefined  in 
stincts;  and  in  Eva's  noble  nature  many  such  were  yearning 
and  working,  for  which  she  had  no  power  of  utterance.  When 
Miss  Ophelia  expatiated  on  Topsy's  naughty,  wicked  conduct, 
the  child  looked  perplexed  and  sorrowful,  but  said,  sweetly,  — 

"Poor  Topsy,  why  need  you  steal?  You're  going  to  be 
taken  good  care  of,  now.  I  'm  sure  I  'd  rather  give  you  any 
thing  of  mine,  than  have  you  steal  it." 

It  was  the  first  word  of  kindness  the  child  had  ever  heard  in 
her  life ;  and  the  sweet  tone  and  manner  struck  strangely  on 
the  wild,  rude  heart,  and  a  sparkle  of  something  like  a  tear 
shone  in  the  keen,  round,  glittering  eye ;  but  it  was  followed 
by  the  short  laugh  and  habitual  grin.  No !  the  ear  that  has 
never  heard  anything  but  abuse  is  strangely  incredulous  of 
anything  so  heavenly  as  kindness ;  and  Topsy  only  thought 
Eva's  speech  something  funny  and  inexplicable,  —  she  did  not 
believe  it. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  with  Topsy  ?  Miss  Ophelia  found 
the  case  a  puzzler  ;  her  rules  for  bringing  up  did  n't  seem  to 
apply.  She  thought  she  would  take  time  to  think  of  it ;  and 
fey  the  way  of  gaining  time,  and  in  hopes  of  some  indefinite 
moral  virtues  supposed  to  be  inherent  in  dark  closets,  Miss 


274  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OK, 

Ophelia  shut  Topsy  up  in  one  till  she  had  arranged  her  ideas 
further  on  the  subject. 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Miss  Ophelia  to  St.  Clare,  "  how  I  'm 
going  to  manage  that  child,  without  whipping  her." 

"  Well,  whip  her,  then,  to  your  heart's  content ;  I  '11  give  you 
full  power  to  do  what  you  like." 

"  Children  always  have  to  be  whipped,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ; 
"  I  never  heard  of  bringing  them  up  without." 

"  Oh,  well,  certainly,"  said  St.  Clare ;  u  do  as  you  think  best. 
Only,  I  '11  make  one  suggestion :  I  Ve  seen  this  child  whipped 
with  a  poker,  knocked  down  with  the  shovel  or  tongs,  which 
ever  came  handiest;  and,  seeing  that  she  is  used  to  that  style 
of  operation,  I  think  your  whippings  will  have  to  be  pretty 
^energetic,  to  make  much  impression." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  with  her,  then  !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  You  have  started  a  serious  question,"  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  I 
wish  you  'd  answer  it.  What  is  to  be  done  with  a  human  being 
that  can  be  governed  only  by  the  lash,  —  that  fails,  —  it 's  a  very 
common  state  of  things  down  here  !  " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know ;  I  never  saw  such  a  child  as  this." 

"  Such  children  are  very  common  among  us,  and  such  men 
and  women,  too.  How  are  they  to  be  governed  ?  "  said  St. 
Clare. 

"  I  'in  sure  it 's  more  than  I  can  say,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Or  I  either,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  The  horrid  cruelties  and 
outrages  that  once  in  a  while  find  their  way  into  the  papers,  — 
such  cases  as  Prue's,  for  example,  —  what  do  they  come  from  ? 
In  many  cases,  it  is  a  gradual  hardening  process  on  both  sides, 
—  the  owner  growing  more  and  more  cruel,  as  the  servant  more 
and  more  callous.  Whipping  and  abuse  are  like  laudanum  ; 
you  have  to  double  the  dose  as  the  sensibilities  decline.  I  saw 
this  very  early  when  I  became  an  owner  ;  and  I  resolved  never 
to  begin,  because  I  did  not  know  when  I  should  stop,  —  and  I 
resolved,  at  least,  to  protect  my  own  moral  nature.  The  conse 
quence  is,  that  my  servants  act  like  spoiled  children  ;  but  I  think 
that  better  than  for  us  both  to  be  brutalized  together.  You  have 
talked  a  great  deal  about  our  responsibilities  in  educating,  couski. 
I  really  wanted  you  to  try  with  one  child,  who  is  a  specimen  of 
thousands  among  us." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  275 

"  It  is  your  system  makes  such  children,"  said  Miss  Ophelia, 

"  I  know  it ;  but  they  are  made,  —  they  exist,  —  and  what  is 
to  be  done  with  them  ?  " 

ik  Well,  I  can't  say  I  thank  you  for  the  experiment.  But, 
then,  as  it  appears  to  be  a  duty,  I  shall  persevere  and  try,  and  do 
the  best  I  can,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ;  and  Miss  Ophelia,  after 
this,  did  labor,  with  a  commendable  degree  of  zeal  and  energy, 
on  her  new  subject.  She  instituted  regular  hours  and  employ 
ments  for  her,  and  undertook  to  teach  her  to  read  and  to  sew. 

In  the  former  art,  the  child  was  quick  enough.  She  learned 
her  letters  as  if  by  magic,  and  was  very  soon  able  to  read  plain 
reading;  but  the  sewing  was  a  more  difficult  matter.  The 
creature  was  as  lithe  as  a  cat,  and  as  active  as  a  monkey,  and  the 
confinement  of  sewing  was  her  abomination  ;  so  she  broke  her 
needles,  threw  them  slyly  out  of  windows,  or  down  in  chinks  of 
the  walls  ;  she  tangled,  broke,  and  dirtied  her  thread,  or,  with  a 
sly  movement,  would  throw  a  spool  away  altogether.  Her  mo 
tions  were  almost  as  quick  as  those  of  a  practised  conjurer,  and 
her  command  of  her  face  quite  as  great ;  and  though  Miss 
Ophelia  could  not  help  feeling  that  so  many  accidents  could  not 
possibly  happen  in  succession,  yet  «he  could  not,  without  a 
watchfulness  which  would  leave  her  no  time  for  anything  else, 
detect  her. 

Topsy  was  soon  a  noted  character  in  the  establishment.  Her 
talent  for  every  species  of  drollery,  grimace,  and  mimicry  —  for 
dancing,  tumbling,  climbing,  singing,  whistling,  imitating  every 
sound  that  hit  her  fancy  —  seemed  inexhaustible.  In  her  play- 
hours,  she  invariably  had  every  child  in  the  establishment  at 
her  heels,  open-mouthed  with  admiration  and  wonder,  —  not  ex 
cepting  Miss  Eva,  who  appeared  to  be  fascinated  by  her  wild 
diablerie,  as  a  dove  is  sometimes  charmed  by  a  glittering  ser 
pent.  Miss  Ophelia  was  uneasy  that  Eva  should  fancy  Topsy's 
society  so  much,  and  implored  St.  Clare  to  forbid  it. 

"  Poh  !  let  the  child  alone,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  Topsy  will  do 
her  good." 

"  But  so  depraved  a  child,  —  are  you  not  afraid  she  will  teach 
her  some  mischief  ?  " 

"  She  can't  teach  her  mischief ;  she  might  teach  it  to  some 
children,  but  evil  rolls  off  Eva's  mind  like  dew  off  a  cabbage- 
leaf,  —  not  a  drop  sinks  in." 


276  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

4<  Don't  b^too  sure,"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  I  know  I  'd  never- 
let  a  child  of  mine  play  with  Topsy." 

"  Well,  your  children  need  n't,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  but  mine 
may ;  if  Eva  could  have  been  spoiled,  it  would  have  been  done 
years  ago." 

Topsy  was  at  first  despised  and  contemned  by  the  upper  ser 
vants.  They  soon  found  reason  to  alter  their  opinion.  It  was 
very  soon  discovered  that  whoever  cast  an  indignity  on  Topsy 
was  sure  to  meet  with  some  inconvenient  accident  shortly  after  ; 
—  either  a  pair  of  ear-rings  or  some  cherished  trinket  would  be 
missing,  or  an  article  of  dress  would  be  suddenly  found  utterly 
ruined,  or  the  person  would  stumble  accidentally  into  a  pail  of 
hot  water,  or  a  libation  of  dirty  slop  would  unaccountably  deluge 
them  from  above  when  in  full  gala  dress ;  —  and  on  all  these 
occasions,  when  investigation  was  made,  there  was  nobody  found 
to  stand  sponsor  for  the  indignity.  Topsy  was  cited,  and  had  up 
before  all  the  domestic  judicatories,  time  and  again ;  but  always 
sustained  her  examinations  with  most  edifying  innocence  and 
gravity  of  appearance.  Nobody  in  the  world  ever  doubted  who 
did  the  things ;  but  not  a  scrap  of  any  direct  evidence  could  be 
found  to  establish  the  suppositions,  and  Miss  Ophelia  was  too 
just  to  feel  at  liberty  to  proceed  to  any  length  without  it. 

The  mischiefs  done  were  always  so  nicely  timed,  also,  as  fur 
ther  to  shelter  the  aggressor.  Thus,  the  times  for  revenge  on 
Rosa  and  Jane,  the  two  chambermaids,  were  always  chosen  in 
those  seasons  when  (as  not  unfrequently  happened)  they  were  in 
disgrace  with  their  mistress,  when  any  complaint  from  them 
would  of  course  meet  with  no  sympathy.  In  short,  Topsy  soon 
made  the  household  understand  the  propriety  of  letting  her 
alone  ;  and  she  was  let  alone  accordingly. 

Topsy  was  smart  and  energetic  in  all  manual  operations, 
learning  everything  that  was  taught  her  with  surprising  quick 
ness.  With  a  few  lessons,  she  had  learned  to  do  the  proprieties 
of  Miss  Ophelia's  chamber  in  a  way  with  which  even  that  partic 
ular  lady  could  find  no  fault.  Mortal  hands  could  not  lay 
spread  smoother,  adjust  pillows  more  accurately,  sweep-and  dust 
and  arrange  more  perfectly,  than  Topsy,  when  she  chose,  —  but 
ghe  did  n't  very  often  choose.  If  Miss  Ophelia,  after  three  or 
four  days  of  careful  and  patient  supervision,  was  so  sanguine  as 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  277 

to  suppose  that  Topsy  had  at  last  fallen  into  her  way,  could  do 
without  overlooking,  and  so  go  off  and  busy  herself  about  some 
thing  else,  Topsy  would  hold  a  perfect  carnival  of  confusion,  for 
some  one  or  two  hours.  Instead  of  making  the  bed,  she  would 
amuse  herself  with  pulling  off  the  pillow-cases,  butting  her  woolly 
head  among  the  pillows,  till  it  would  sometimes  be  grotesquely 
ornamented  with  feathers  sticking  out  in  various  directions  ;  she 
would  climb  the  posts,  and  hang  head  downward  from  the  tops  ; 
flourish  the  sheets  and  spreads  all  over  the  apartment ;  dress  the 
bolster  up  in  Miss  Ophelia's  night-clothes,  and  enact  various 
scenic  performances  with  that,  —  singing  and  whistling,  and 
making  grimaces  at  herself  in  the  looking-glass  ;  in  short,  as  Miss 
Ophelia  phrased  it,  "  raising  Cain  "  generally. 

On  one  occasion,  Miss  Ophelia  found  Topsy  with  her  very  best 
scarlet  India  Canton  crape  shawl  wound  around  her  head  for  a 
turban,  going  on  with  her  rehearsals  before  the  glass  in  great 
style,  —  Miss  Ophelia  having,  with  carelessness  most  unheard  of 
in  her,  left  the  key  for  once  in  her  drawer. 

"  Topsy !  "  she  would  say,  when  at  the  end  of  all  patience, 
"  what  does  make  you  act  so  ?  " 

"  Dunno,  Missis,  —  I  spects  'cause  I  's  so  wicked !  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  what  I  shall  do  with  you,  Topsy." 

"Law,  Missis,  you  must  whip  me;  my  old  Missis  allers 
whipped  me.  I  an't  used  to  workin'  unless  I  gets  whipped." 

"  Why,  l"opsy,  I  don't  want  to  whip  you.  You  can  do  well, 
if  you  've  a  mind  to  ;  what  is  the  reason  you  won't  ?  " 

"  Laws,  Missis,  I 's  used  to  whippin' ;  I  spects  it  's  good  for 
me." 

Miss  Ophelia  tried  the  recipe,  and  Topsy  invariably  made  a 
terrible  commotion,  screaming,  groaning,  and  imploring,  though 
half  an  hour  afterwards,  when  roosted  on  some  projection  of  the 
balcony,  and  surrounded  by  a  flock  of  admiring  "  young  uns," 
she  would  express  the  utmost  contempt  of  the  whole  affair. 

"  Law,  Miss  Feely  whip !  —  would  n't  kill  a  skeeter,  her 
whippin's.  Oughter  see  how  old  Mas'r  made  the  flesh  fly ;  old 
Mas'r  know'd  how  !  " 

Topsy  always  made  great  capital  of  her  own  sins  and  enor 
mities,  evidently  considering  them  as  something  peculiarly  dis 
tinguishing. 


278  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  Law,  you  niggers,"  she  would  say  to  some  of  her  auditors, 
"  does  you  know  you  's  all  sinners  ?  Well,  you  is,  —  everybody 
is.  White  folks  is  sinners  too,  —  Miss  Feely  says  so  ;  but  I 
spects  niggers  is  the  biggest  ones ;  but  lor !  ye  an't  any  on  ye 
up  to  me.  I 's  so  awful  wicked  there  can't  nobody  do  nothin' 
with  me.  I  used  to  keep  old  Missis  a  swarin'  at  me  half  de 
time.  I  spects  I 's  the  wickedest  crittur  in  the  world  ; "  and 
Topsy  would  cut  a  summerset,  and  come  up  brisk  and  shining 
on  to  a  higher  perch,  and  evidently  plume  herself  on  the  distinc 
tion. 

Miss  Ophelia  busied  herself  very  earnestly  on  Sundays,  teach 
ing  Topsy  the  catechism.  Topsy  had  an  uncommon  verbal 
memory,  and  committed  with  a  fluency  that  greatly  encouraged 
her  instructress. 

"  What  good  do  you  expect  it  is  going  to  do  her  ?  "  said  St. 
Clare. 

"  Why,  it  always  has  done  children  good.  It 's  what  children 
always  have  to  learn,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Understand  it  or  not,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Oh,  children  never  understand  it  at  the  time  ;  but,  after 
they  are  grown  up,  it  '11  come  to  them." 

"  Mine  has  n't  come  to  me  yet,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  though  I  '11 
bear  testimony  that  you  put  it  into  me  pretty  thoroughly  when 
I  was  a  boy." 

"  Ah,  you  were  always  good  at  learning,  Augustine.  I  used 
to  have  great  hopes  of  you,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Well,  have  n't  you  now  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  I  wish  you  were  as  good  as  you  were  when  you  were  a  boy, 
Augustine." 

"  So  do  I,  that 's  a  fact,  cousin,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  Well,  go 
ahead  and  catechise  Topsy ;  may  be  you  '11  make  out  something 
yet." 

Topsy,  who  had  stood  like  a  black  statue  during  this  discus 
sion,  with  hands  decently  folded,  now,  at  a  signal  from  Miss 
Ophelia,  went  on,  — 

"  Our  first  parents,  being  left  to  the  freedom  of  their  own 
will,  fell  from  the  state  wherein  they  were  created." 

Topsy's  eyes  twinkled,  and  she  looked  inquiringly. 

"  What  is  it,  Topsy  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  279 

"  Please,  Missis,  was  dat  ar  state  Kintuck  ?  " 

"  What  state,  Topsy  ?  " 

"  Dat  state  dey  fell  out  of.  I  used  to  hear  Mas'r  tell  how 
we  came  down  from  Kintuck." 

St.  Clare  laughed. 

"  You  '11  have  to  give  her  a  meaning,  or  she  '11  make  one," 
said  he.  "  There  seems  to  be  a  theory  of  emigration  suggested 
there." 

"  Oh,  Augustine,  he  still,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ;  "  how  can  I  do 
anything,  if  you  will  he  laughing  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  won't  disturb  the  exercises  again,  on  my  honor ;  " 
and  St.  Clare  took  his  paper  into  the  parlor,  and  sat  down,  till 
Topsy  had  finished  her  recitations.  They  were  all  very  well, 
only  that  now  and  then  she  would  oddly  transpose  some  impor 
tant  words,  and  persist  in  the  mistake,  in  spite  of  every  effort  to 
the  contrary ;  and  St.  Clare,  after  all  his  promises  of  goodness, 
took  a  wicked  pleasure  in  these  mistakes,  calling  Topsy  to  him 
whenever  he  had  a  mind  to  amuse  himself,  and  getting  her  to 
repeat  the  offending  passages,  in  spite  of  Miss  Ophelia's  remon 
strances. 

"  How  do  you  think  I  can  do  anything  with  the  child,  if  you 
will  go  on  so,  Augustine  ?  "  she  would  say. 

"  Well,  it  is  too  bad,  —  I  won't  again  ;  but  I  do  like  to  hear 
the  droll  little  image  stumble  over  those  big  words  !  " 

"  But  you  confirm  her  in  the  wrong  way." 

"  What 's  the  odds  ?  One  word  is  as  good  as  another  to 
her." 

"  You  wanted  me  to  bring  her  up  right ;  and  you  ought  to 
remember  she  is  a  reasonable  creature,  and  be  careful  of  your 
influence  over  her." 

"  Oh,  dismal !  so  I  ought ;  but,  as  Topsy  herself  says,  *  I 's  so 
wicked !  '  " 

In  very  much  this  way  Topsy's  training  proceeded,  for  a 
year  or  two,  —  Miss  Ophelia  worrying  herself,  from  day  to  day, 
with  her,  as  a  kind  of  chronic  plague,  to  whose  inflictions  she 
became,  in  time,  as  accustomed  as  persons  sometimes  do  to  the 
neuralgia  or  sick-headache. 

St.  Clare  took  the  same  kind  of  amusement  in  the  child  that 
a  man  might  in  the  tricks  of  a  parrot  or  a  pointer.  Topsy, 


280  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

whenever  her  sins  brought  her  into  disgrace  in  other  quarters, 
always  took  refuge  behind  his  chair ;  and  St.  Clare,  in  one  way 
or  other,  would  make  peace  for  her.  From  him  she  got  many 
a  stray  picayune,  which  she  laid  out  in  nuts  and  candies,  and 

I  distributed,  with  careless  generosity,  to  all  the  children  in  the 
family  ;  for  Topsy,  to  do  her  justice,  was  good-natured  and  lib- 

1  eral,  and  only  spiteful  in  self-defence.  She  is  fairly  introduced 
into  our  corps  de  ballet,  and  will  figure,  from  time  to  time,  in 
her  turn,  with  other  performers. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  281 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

KENTUCK. 

OUR  readers  may  not  be  unwilling  to  glance  back,  for  a  briel 
interval,  at  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  on  the  Kentucky  farm,  and  see 
what  has  been  transpiring  among  those  whom  he  had  left  be 
hind. 

It  was  late  in  the  summer  afternoon,  and  the  doors  and  win 
dows  of  the  large  parlor  all  stood  open,  to  invite  any  stray 
breeze,  that  might  feel  in  a  good  humor,  to  enter.  Mr.  Shelby 
sat  in  a  large  hall  opening  into  the  room,  and  running  through 
the  whole  length  of  the  house,  to  a  balcony  on  either  end.  Leis 
urely  tipped  back  in  one  chair,  with  his  heels  in  another,  he  was 
enjoying  his  after-dinner  cigar.  Mrs.  Shelby  sat  in  the  door, 
busy  about  some  fine  sewing ;  she  seemed  like  one  who  had 
something  on  her  mind,  which  she  was  seeking  an  opportunity 
to  introduce. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  that  Chloe  has  had  a  letter  from 
Tom?" 

"  Ah !  has  she  ?  Tom 's  got  some  friend  there,  it  seems. 
How  is  the  old  boy  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  bought  by  a  very  fine  family,  I  should  think," 
said  Mrs.  Shelby,  —  "is  kindly  treated,  and  has  not  much  to 
do." 

"Ah  !  well,  I  'm  glad  of  it,  — very  glad,"  said  Mr.  Shelby, 
heartily.  "  Tom,  I  suppose,  will  get  reconciled  to  a  southern  res 
idence  ;  —  hardly  want  to  come  up  here  again." 

"On  the  contrary,  he  inquires  very  anxiously,"  said  Mrs. 
Shelby,  "  when  the  money  for  his  redemption  is  to  be  raised." 

"  I  'm  sure  /  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Shelby.  "  Once  get 
business  running  wrong,  there  does  seem  to  be  no  end  to  it 
It 's  like  jumping  from  one  bog  to  another,  all  through  a  swamp  ; 
borrow  of  one  to  pay  another,  and  then  borrow  of  another  to 


282  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

pay  one,  —  and  these  confounded  notes  falling  due  before  a 
man  has  time  to  smoke  a  cigar  and  turn  round,  —  dunning  let 
ters  and  dunning  messages,  — all  scamper  and  hurry-scurry.'1 

"  It  does  seem  to  me,  my  dear,  that  something  might  he  done 
to  straighten  matters.  Suppose  we  sell  off  all  the  horses,  and 
sell  one  of  your  farms,  and  pay  up  square  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ridiculous,  Emily !  You  are  the  finest  woman  in  Ken 
tucky  ;  hut  still  you  have  n't  sense  to  know  that  you  don't  un 
derstand  lousiness  ;  — women  never  do,  and  never  can." 

"  But,  at  least,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  "  could  not  you  give  me 
some  little  insight  into  yours ;  a  list  of  all  your  debts,  at  least? 
and  of  all  that  is  owed  to  you,  and  let  me  try  and  see  if  I  can't 
help  you  to  economize." 

"  Oh,  bother  !  don't  plague  me,  Emily !  —  I  can't  tell  exactly. 
I  know  somewhere  about  what  things  are  likely  to  be  ;  but 
there 's  no  trimming  and  squaring  my  affairs,  as  Chloe  trims 
crust  off  her  pies.  You  don't  know  anything  about  business,  I 
tell  you." 

And  Mr.  Shelby,  not  knowing  any  other  way  of  enforcing  his 
ideas,  raised  his  voice,  —  a  mode  of  arguing  very  convenient 
and  convincing,  when  a  gentleman  is  discussing  matters  of  busi 
ness  with  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Shelby  ceased  talking,  with  something  of  a  sigh.  The 
fact  was,  that  though  her  husband  had  stated  she  was  a  woman, 
she  had  a  clear,  energetic,  practical  mind,  and  a  force  of  char 
acter  every  way  superior  to  that  of  her  husband ;  so  that  it 
would  not  have  been  so  very  absurd  a  supposition,  to  have  al 
lowed  her  capable  of  managing,  as  Mr.  Shelby  supposed.  Her 
heart  was  set  on  performing  her  promise  to  Tom  and  Aunt 
Chloe,  and  she  sighed  as  discouragements  thickened  around  her. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  might  in  some  way  contrive  to  raise 
that  money  ?  Poor  Aunt  Chloe  !  her  heart  is  so  set  on  it !  " 

"  I  'in  sorry,  if  it  is.  I  think  I  was  premature  in  promising. 
I  'in  not  sure,  now,  but  it 's  the  best  way  to  tell  Chloe,  and  let 
her  make  up  her  mind  to  it.  Tom  '11  have  another  wife,  in  a 
year  or  two  ;  and  she  had  better  take  up  with  somebody  else." 

"  Mr.  Shelby,  I  have  taught  my  people  that  their  marriages 
are  as  sacred  as  ours.  I  never  could  think  of  giving  Ciiloe  such 
advice." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  283 

"  It  js.  a  pity,  wif  e^  that  you  have  burdened  them  with  ajjioral- 
itj^above  their  condition  and  prospects.  I  always  thought  so." 

"  It 's  only  the  morality  of  the  Bible,  Mr.  Shelby." 

"Well,  well,  Emily,  I  don't  pretend  to  interfere  with  your 
religious  notions  ;  only  they  seem  extremely  unfitted  for  people 
in  that  condition." 

"  They  are,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  "  and  that  is  why, 
from  my  soul,  I  hate  the  whole  thing.  I  tell  you,  my  dear,  / 
cannot  absolve  myself  from  the  promises  I  make  to  these  help 
less  creatures.  If  I  can  get  the  money  no  other  way,  I  will 
take  music-scholars;  —  I  could  get  enough,  I  know,  and  earn 
the  money  myself." 

"  You  would  n't  degrade  yourself  that  way,  Emily  ?  I  never 
could  consent  to  it." 

"  Degrade !  would  it  degrade  me  as  much  as  to  break  my 
faith  with  the  helpless  ?  No,  indeed  !  " 

"  Well,  you  are  always  heroic  and  transcendental,"  said  Mr. 
Shelby,  "  but  I  think  you  had  better  think  before  you  under 
take  such  a  piece  of  Quixotism." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of 
Aunt  Chloe,  at  the  end  of  the  veranda. 

"  If  you  please,  Missis,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  Chloe,  what  is  it  ?  "  said  her  mistress,  rising,  and 
going  to  the  end  of  the  balcony. 

"  If  Missis  would  come  and  look  at  dis  yer  lot  o'  poetry." 

Chloe  had  a  particular  fancy  for  calling  poultry  poetry,  — 
an  application  of  language  in  which  she  always  persisted,  not 
withstanding  frequent  corrections  and  advisings  from  the  young 
members  of  the  family. 

"  La  sakes !  "  she  would  say,  "  I  can't  see  ;  one  jis  good  as 
turry,  —  poetry  suthin  good,  any  how ;  "  and  so  poetry  Chloe 
continued  to  call  it. 

Mrs.  Shelby  smiled  as  she  saw  a  prostrate  lot  of  chickens  and 
ducks,  over  which  Chloe  stood,  with  a  very  grave  face  of  con 
sideration. 

"  I  'm  a  thmkin'  whether  Missis  would  be  a  havin'  a  chicken 
pie  o'  dese  yer." 

"  Really,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  don'fr  much  care  ;  —  serve  the"a  any 
you 


284  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

Chloe  stood  handling  them  over  abstractedly;  it  was  quite 
evident  that  the  chickens  were  not  what  she  was  thinking  of. 
At  last,  with  the  short  laugh  with  which  her  tribe  often  intro 
duce  a  doubtful  proposal,  she  said,  — 

"  Laws  me,  Missis !  what  should  Mas'r  and  Missis  be  a 
troublin'  theirselves  'bout  de  money,  and  not  a  usin'  what  's 
right  in  der  hands  ?  "  and  Chloe  laughed  again. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Chloe,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  nothing 
doubting,  from  her  knowledge  of  Chloe's  manner,  that  she  had 
heard  every  word  of  the  conversation  that  had  passed  between 
her  and  her  husband. 

"  Why,  laws  me,  Missis  !  "  said  Chloe,  laughing  again,  "  other 
folks  hires  out  der  niggers  and  makes  money  on  'em.  Don't 
keep  sich  a  tribe  eatin'  'em  out  of  house  and  home." 

"Well,  Chloe,  whom  do  you  propose  that  we  should  hire 
out?" 

"  Laws  !  I  an't  a  proposin'  nothin' ;  only  Sam  he  said  der  was 
one  of  dese  yer  perfectioners,  dey  calls  'em,  in  Louisville,  said 
he  wanted  a  good  hand  at  cake  and  pastry  ;  and  said  he  'd  give 
four  dollars  a  week  to  one,  he  did." 

"  Well,  Chloe." 

"  Well,  laws,  I  's  a  thinkin,  Missis,  it  's  time  Sally  was  put 
along  to  be  doin'  something.  Sally  's  been  under  my  care,  now, 
dis  some  time,  and  she  does  most  as  well  as  me,  considerin' ; 
and  if  Missis  would  only  let  me  go,  I  would  help  fetch  up  de 
money.  I  an't  afraid  to  put  my  cake,  nor  pies  nother,  'long  side 
no  perfectioner's." 

"Confectioner's,  Chloe." 

"  Law  sakes,  Missis  !  't  an't  no  odds  ;  —  words  is  so  curis, 
can't  never  get  'em  right !  " 

"  But,  Chloe,  do  you  want  to  leave  your  children  ?  " 

"Laws,  Missis!  de  boys  is  big  enough  to  do  day's  works, 
dey  does  well  enough  ;  and  Sally,  she  '11  take  de  baby,  —  she  's 
such  a  peart  young  un,  she  won't  take  no  lookin'  arter." 

"  Louisville  is  a  good  way  off." 

"  Law  sakes  !  who  's  af  eared  ?  —  it 's  down  river,  somer  near 
my  old  man,  perhaps  ?  "  said  Chloe,  speaking  the  last  in  the 
tone  of  a  question,  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Shelby. 

"  No,  Chloe,  it 's  many  a  hundred  miles  off,"  said  Mrs, 
Shelby. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  285 

Chloe's  countenance  fell. 

"Never  mind;  your  going  there  shall  bring  you  nearer, 
Chloe.  Yes,  you  may  go ;  and  your  wages  shall  every  cent  of 
them  be  laid  aside  for  your  husband's  redemption." 

As  when  a  bright  sunbeam  turns  a  dark  cloud  to  silver,  so 
Chloe's  dark  face  brightened  immediately,  —  it  really  shone. 

"  Laws  !  if  Missi?  is  n't  too  good !  I  was  thinking  of  dat 
ar  very  thing ;  'cause  I  should  n't  need  no  clothes,  nor  shoes, 
nor  nothin',  —  I  could  save  every  cent.  How  many  weeks  is 
der  in  a  year,  Missis  ?  " 

"Fifty-two,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

"  Laws !  now,  dere  is  ?  and  four  dollars  for  each  on  'em. 
Why,  how  much  'cl  dat  ar  be  ?  " 

"  Two  hundred  and  eight  dollars,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

"  Why-e  !  "  said  Chloe,  with  an  accent  of  surprise  and 
delight;  "and  how  long  would  it  take  me  to  work  it  out, 
Missis  ?  " 

"  Some  four  or  five  years,  Chloe  ;  but,  then,  you  need  n't  do 
it  all,  —  I  shall  add  something  to  it." 

"  I  would  n't  hear  to  Missis'  givin'  lessons  nor  nothin'. 
Mas'r  's  quite  right  in  dat  ar  ;  —  '  t  would  n't  do,  no  ways.  I 
hope  none  our  family  ever  be  brought  to  dat  ar,  while  I 's  got 
hands." 

"  Don't  fear,  Chloe ;  I'll  take  care  of  the  honor  of  the 
family,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  smiling.  "  But  when  do  you  expect 
to  go?" 

"  Well,  I  warn't  'spectin'  nothin'  ;  only  Sam,  he  's  a  gwine  to 
de  river  with  some  colts,  and  he  said  I  could  go  'long  with  him  ; 
so  I  jes  put  my  things  together.  If  Missis  was  willin',  I  'd  go 
with  Sam  to-morrow  morning,  if  Missis  would  write  my  pass, 
and  write  me  a  commendation." 

"  Well,  Chloe,  I  '11  attend  to  it,  if  Mr.  Shelby  has  no  objec 
tions.  I  must  speak  to  him." 

Mrs.  Shelby  went  up  stairs,  and  Aunt  Chloe,  delighted,  went 
out  to  her  cabin,  to  make  her  preparation. 

"  Law  sakes,  Mas'r  George  !  ye  did  n't  know  I  's  a  gwine  to 
Louisville  to-morrow !  "  she  said  to  George,  as,  entering  her 
cabin,  he  found  her  busy  in  sorting  over  her  baby's  clothes.  "  I 
thought  I  'd  jis  look  over  sis's  things,  and  get  'em  straightened 


286  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OK, 

up.  But  I  'm  gwine,  Mas'r  George,  —  gwine  to  have  four 
dollars  a  week  ;  and  Missis  is  gwine  to  lay  it  all  up,  to  buy 
back  my  old  man  agin  !  " 

"  Whew !  "  said  George,  "  here  's  a  stroke  of  business,  to  be 
sure  !  How  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,  wid  Sam.  And  now,  Mas'r  George,  I  knows 
you  '11  jis  sit  down  and  write  to  my  old  man,  and  tell  him  all 
about  it,  won  't  ye  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  George  ;  u  Uncle  Tom  '11  be  right  glad  to 
hear  from  us.  I  '11  go  right  in  the  house,  for  paper  and  ink ; 
and  then,  you  know,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  can  tell  about  the  new  colts 
and  all." 

"  Sartin,  sartin,  Mas'r  George ;  you  go  'long,  and  I  '11  get  ye 
up  a  bit  o'  chicken,  or  some  sich ;  ye  won't  have  many  more 
suppers  wid  yer  poor  old  aunty." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  287 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

"THE  GRASS  WITHERETH  —  THE  FLOWER  FADETH." 

LIFE  passes,  with  us  all,  a  day  at  a  time ;  so  it  passed  with 
our  friend  Tom,  till  two  years  were  gone.  Though  parted  from 
all  his  soul  held  dear,  and  though  often  yearning  for  what  lay 
beyond,  still  was  he  never  positively  and  consciously  miserable  ; 
for,  so  well  is  the  harp  of  human  feeling  strung,  that  nothing 
but  a  crash  that  breaks  every  string  can  wholly  mar  its  har 
mony ;  and,  on  looking  back  to  seasons  which  in  review  appear- 
to  us  as  those  of  deprivation  and  trial,  we  can  remember  that 
each  hour  as  it  glided,  brought  its  diversions  and  alleviations, 
so  that,  though  not  happy  wholly,  we  were  not,  either,  wholly 
miserable. 

Tom  read,  in  his  only  literary  cabinet,  of  one  who  had 
"learned  in  whatsoever  state  he  was,  therewith  to  be  content." 
It  seemed  to  him  good  and  reasonable  doctrine,  and  accorded 
well  with  the  settled  and  thoughtful  habit  which  he  had  acquired 
from  the  reading  of  that  same  book. 

His  letter  homeward,  as  we  related  in  the  last  chapter,  was 
in  due  time  answered  by  Master  George,  in  a  good,  round, 
school-boy  hand,  that  Tom  said  might  be  read  "  most  acrost  the 
room."  It  contained  various  refreshing  items  of  home  intelli 
gence,  with  which  our  reader  is  fully  acquainted;  stated  how 
Aunt  Chloe  had  been  hired  out  to  a  confectioner  in  Louisville, 
where  her  skill  in  the  pastry  line  was  gaining  wonderful  sums 
of  money,  all  of  which,  Tom  was  informed,  was  to  be  laid  up 
to  go  to  make  up  the  sum  of  his  redemption  money ;  Mose  and 
Pete  were  thriving,  and  the  baby  was  trotting  all  about  the 
house,  under  the  care  of  Sally  and  the  family  generally. 

Tom's  cabin  was  shut  up  for  the  present ;  but  George  expa 
tiated  brilliantly  on  ornaments  and  additions  to  be  made  to  it 
when  Tom  came  back. 


288  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

The  rest  of  this  letter  gave  a  list  of  George's  school  studies, 
each  one  headed  by  a  flourishing  capital;  and  also  told  the 
names  of  four  new  colts  that  appeared  on  the  premises  since 
Tom  left ;  and  stated,  in  the  same  connection,  that  father  and 
mother  were  well.  The  style  of  the  letter  was  decidedly  con 
cise  and  terse  ;  but  Tom  thought  it  the  most  wonderful  speci 
men  of  composition  that  had  appeared  in  modern  times.  He 
was  never  tired  of  looking  at  it,  and  even  held  a  council  with 
Eva  on  the  expediency  of  getting  it  framed,  to  hang  up  in  his 
room.  Nothing  but  the  difficulty  of  arranging  it  so  that  both 
sides  of  the  page  would  show  at  once  stood  in  the  way  of  this 
undertaking. 

The  friendship  between  Tom  and  Eva  had  grown  with  the 
child's  growth.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  what  place  she  held 
in  the  soft,  impressible  heart  of  her  faithful  attendant.  He 
loved  her  as  something  frail  and  earthly,  yet  almost  worshipped 
her  as  something  heavenly  and  divine.  He  gazed  on  her  as  the 
Italian  sailor  gazes  on  his  image  of  the  child  Jesus,  —  with  a 
mixture  of  reverence  and  tenderness  ;  and  to  humor  her  grace 
ful  fancies,  and  meet  those  thousand  simple  wants  which  invest 
childhood  like  a  many-colored  rainbow,  was  Tom's  chief  de 
light.  In  the  market,  at  morning,  his  eyes  were  always  on  the 
flower-stalls  for  rare  bouquets  for  her,  and  the  choicest  peach  or 
orange  was  slipped  into  his  pocket  to  give  to  her  when  he  came 
back  ;  and  the  sight  that  pleased  him  most  was  her  sunny  head 
looking  out  the  gate  for  his  distant  approach,  and  her  childish 
question,  —  "  Well,  Uncle  Tom,  what  have  you  got  for  me  to 
day  ?  " 

Nor  was  Eva  less  zealous  in  kind  offices,  in  return.  Though 
*t  child,  she  was  a  beautiful  reader ;  —  a  fine  musical  ear,  a 
quick  poetic  fancy,  and  an  instinctive  sympathy  with  what  is 
grand  and  noble,  made  her  such  a  reader  of  the  Bible  as  Torn 
had  never  before  heard.  At  first,  she  read  to  please  her  humble 
friend  ;  but  soon  her  own  earnest  nature  threw  out  its  tendrils, 
and  wound  itself  around  the  majestic  book ;  and  Eva  loved  it, 
because  it  woke  in  her  strange  yearnings,  and  strong,  dim  emcp 
tions,  such  as  impassioned,  imaginative  children  love  to  feel. 

The  parts  that  pleased  her  most  were  the  Revelation  and 
the  Prophecies,  —  parts  whose  dim  and  wondrous  imagery,  and 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  289 

fervent  language,  impressed  her  the  more,  that  she  questioned 
vainly  of  their  meaning ;  and  she  and  her  simple  friend,  the  old 
child  and  the  young  one,  felt  just  alike  about  it.  All  that  they 
knew  was,  that  they  spoke  of  a  glory  to  be  revealed,  —  a  won 
drous  something  yet  to  come,  wherein  their  soul  rejoiced,  yet 
knew  not  why  ;  and  though  it  be  not  so  in  the  physical,  yet  in 
moral  science  that  which  cannot  be  understood  is  not  always 
profitless.  For  the  soul  awakes,  a  trembling  stranger,  between 
two  dim  eternities,  —  the  eternal  past,  the  eternal  future.  The 
light  shines  only  on  a  small  space  around  her  ;  therefore,  she 
needs  must  yearn  towards  the  unknown  ;  and  the  voices  and 
shadowy  movings  which  come  to  her  from  out  the  cloudy  pillar 
of  inspiration  have  each  one  echoes  and  answers  in  her  own  ex 
pecting  nature.  Its  mystic  imageries  are  so  many  talismans 
and  gems  inscribed  with  unknown  hieroglyphics  ;  she  folds 
them  in  her  bosom,  and  expects  to  read  them  when  she  passes 
beyond  the  veil. 

At  this  time  in  our  story,  the  whole  St.  Clare  establishment 
is,  for  the  time  being,  removed  to  their  villa  on  Lake  Pontchar- 
train.  The  heats  of  summer  had  driven  ah1  who  were  able  to 
leave  the  sultry  and  unhealthy  city,  to  seek  the  shores  of  the 
lake,  and  its  cool  sea-breezes. 

St.  Clare's  villa  was  an  East-Indian  cottage,  surrounded  by 
light  verandas  of  bamboo-work,  and  opening  on  all  sides  into 
gardens  and  pleasure-grounds.  The  common  sitting-room 
opened  on  to  a  large  garden,  fragrant  with  every  picturesque 
plant  and  flower  of  the  tropics,  where  winding  paths  ran  down 
to  the  very  shores  of  the  lake,  whose  silvery  sheet  of  water  lay 
there,  rising  and  falling  in  the  sunbeams,  —  a  picture  never  for 
an  hour  the  same,  yet  every  hour  more  beautiful. 

It  is  now  one  of  those  intensely  golden  sunsets  which  kin 
dles  the  whole  horizon  into  one  blaze  of  glory,  and  makes  the 
water  another  sky.  The  lake  lay  in  rosy  or  golden  streaks, 
save  where  white -winged  vessels  glided  hither  and  thither, 
like  so  many  spirits,  and  little  golden  stars  twinkled  through 
the  glow,  and  looked  down  at  themselves  as  they  trembled  in 
the  water. 

Tom  and  Eva  were  seated  on  a  little  mossy  seat,  in  an  arbor, 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  It  was  Sunday  evening,  and  Eva's 


290  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

Bible  lay  open  on  her  knee.  She  read,  —  "  And  I  saw  a  sea  of 
glass,  mingled  with  fire." 

"Tom,"  said  Eva,  suddenly  stopping,  and  pointing  to  the 
kke,  "  there  't  is." 

"  What,  Miss  Eva  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see,  —  there  ?  "  said  the  child,  pointing  to  the 
glassy  water,  which,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  reflected  the  golden 
glow  of  the  sky.  "  There  's  a  '  sea  of  glass  mingled  with 
fire.'  " 

"  True  enough,  Miss  Eva,"  said  Tom  ;  and  Tom  sang :  — 

"  Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  the  morning, 

I  'd  fly  away  to  Canaan's  shore ; 
Bright  angels  should  convey  me  home, 
To  the  new  Jerusalem." 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  new  Jerusalem  is,  Uncle  Tom  ?  " 
said  Eva. 

"  Oh,  up  in  the  clouds,  Miss  Eva." 

"  Then  I  think  I  see  it,"  said  Eva.  "  Look  in  those  clouds  ! 
—  they  look  like  great  gates  of  pearl ;  and  you  can  see  beyond 
them,  —  far,  far  off,  —  it 's  all  gold.  Tom,  sing  about  '  spirits 
bright.'  " 

Tom  sung  the  words  of  a  well-known  Methodist  hymn,  — 

"  I  see  a  band  of  spirits  bright, 

That  taste  the  glories  there  ; 
They  all  are  robed  in  spotless  white, 
And  conquering  palms  they  bear." 

"  Uncle  Tom,  I  've  seen  them"  said  Eva. 

Tom  had  no  doubt  of  it  at  all ;  it  did  not  surprise  him  in  the 
least.  If  Eva  had  told  him  she  had  been  to  heaven,  he  would 
have  thought  it  entirely  probable. 

"  They  come  to  me  sometimes  in  my  sleep,  those  spirits  ;  " 
and  Eva's  eyes  grew  dreamy,  and  she  hummed,  in  a  low 
voice,  -*— 

"  They  all  are  robed  in  spotless  white, 
And  conquering  palms  they  bear." 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  said  Eva,  "  I  'm  going  there." 
"  Where,  Miss  Eva  ?  " 

The  child  rose,  and  pointed  her  little  hand  to  the  sky  ;  the 
glow  of  evening  lit  her  golden  hair  and  flushed  cheek  with  a 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  291 

kind  of  unearthly  radiance,  and  her  eyes  were  bent  earnestly 
on  the  skies. 

"  I  'm  going  there,"  she  said,  "  to  the  spirits  bright,  Tom ; 
I'm  going  before  long." 

The  faithful  old  heart  felt  a  sudden  thrust ;  and  Tom  thought 
how  often  he  had  noticed,  within  six  months,  that  Eva's  little 
hands  had  grown  thinner,  and  her  skin  more  transparent,  and 
her  breath  shorter ;  and  how,  when  she  ran  or  played  in  the 
garden,  as  she  once  could  for  hours,  she  became  soon  so  tired 
and  languid.  He  had  heard  Miss  Ophelia  speak  often  of  a 
cough,  that  all  her  medicaments  could  not  cure ;  and  even  now 
that  fervent  cheek  and  little  hand  were  burning  with  hectic 
fe\er;  and  yet  the  thought  that  Eva's  words  suggested  had 
never  come  to  him  till  now. 

Has  there  ever  been  a  child  like  Eva?  Yes,  there  have 
been  ;  but  their  names  are  always  on  gravestones,  and  their 
sweet  smiles,  their  heavenly  eyes,  their  singular  words  and  ways, 
are  among  the  buried  treasures  of  yearning  hearts.'"  In  how 
many  families  do  you  hear  the  legend  that  all  the  goodness  and 
graces  of  the  living  ara  nothing  to  the  peculiar  charms  of  one 
who  is  not !  It  is  as  if  Heaven  had  an  especial  band  of  angels, 
whose  office  it  was  to  sojourn  for  a  season  here,  and  endear  to 
them  the  wayward  human  heart,  that  they  might  bear  it  upward 
with  them  in  their  homeward  flight.  When  you  see  that  dee^, 
spiritual  light  in  the  eye,  —  when  the  little  soul  reveals  itself  in 
words  sweeter  and  wiser  than  the  ordinary  words  of  children,  — 
hope  not  to  retain  that  child ;  for  the  seal  of  heaven  is  on  it, 
and  the  light  of  immortality  looks  out  from  its  eyes. 

Even  so,  beloved  Eva  !  fair  star  of  thy  dwelling !  Thou  art 
passing  away ;  but  they  that  love  thee  dearest  know  it  not. 

The  colloquy  between  Tom  and  Eva  was  interrupted  by  a 
hasty  call  from  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Eva  —  Eva !  —  why,  child,  the  dew  is  falling ;  you  must  n't 
be  out  there !  " 

Eva  and  Tom  hastened  in. 

Miss  Ophelia  was  old,  and  skilled  in  the  tactics  of  nursing. 
She  was  from  New  England,  and  knew  well  the  first  guileful 
footsteps  of  that  soft,  insidious  disease,  which  sweeps  away  so 
many  of  the  fairest  and  loveliest,  and,  before  one  fibre  of  life 
broken,  seals  them  irrevocably  for  death. 


292  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN;   Oil, 

She  had  noted  the  slight,  dry  cough,  the  daily  brightening 
cheek ;  nor  could  the  lustre  of  the  eye,  and  the  airy  buoyancy 
born  of  fever,  deceive  her. 

She  tried  to  communicate  her  fears  to  St.  Clare  ;  but  he  threw 
back  her  suggestions  with  a  restless  petulance,  unlike  his  usual 
careless  good-humor. 

"  Don't  be  croaking,  cousin,  —  I  hate  it !  "  he  would  say  ; 
"  don't  you  see  that  the  child  is  only  growing  ?  Children  al 
ways  lose  strength  when  they  grow  fast." 

"  But  she  has  that  cough !  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense  of  that  cough !  —  it  is  not  anything.  She  has 
taken  a  little  cold,  perhaps." 

*  Well,  that  was  just  the  way  Eliza  Jane  was  taken,  and  Ellen 
and  Maria  Sanders." 

"  Oh,  stop  these  hobgoblin  nurse-legends.  You  old  hands  get 
so  wise,  that  a  child  cannot  cough,  or  sneeze,  but  you  see  des 
peration  and  ruin  at  hand.  Only  take  care  of  the  child,  keep 
her  from  the  night  air,  and  don't  let  her  play  too  hard,  and 
she  '11  do  well  enough." 

So  St.  Clare  said  ;  but  he  grew  nervous  and  restless.  He 
watched  Eva  feverishly  day  by  day,  as  might  be  told  by  the 
frequency  with  which  he  repeated  over  that  "  the  child  was 
quite  well,"  —  that  there  was  n't  anything  in  that  cough,  —  it 
was  only  some  little  stomach  affection,  such  as  children  often 
had.  But  he  kept  by  her  more  than  before,  took  her  oftener  to 
ride  with  him,  brought  home  every  few  days  some  receipt  or 
strengthening  mixture,  —  u  not,"  he  said,  "  that  the  child  needed 
it,  but  then  it  would  riot  do  her  any  harm." 

If  it  must  be  told,  the  thing  that  struck  a  deeper  pang  to  his 
heart  than  anything  else  was  the  daily  increasing  maturity  of 
the  child's  mind  and  feelings.  While  still  retaining  all  a  child's 
fanciful  graces,  yet  she  often  dropped,  unconsciously,  words  of 
such  a  reach  of  thought,  and  strange  unworldly  wisdom,  that 
they  seemed  to  be  an  inspiration.  At  such  times,  St.  Clare 
would  feel  a  sudden  thrill,  and  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  as  if  that 
fond  clasp  could  save  her ;  and  his  heart  rose  up  with  wild  de 
termination  to  keep  her,  never  to  let  her  go. 

The  child's  whole  heart  and  soul  seemed  absorbed  in  works 
of  love  and  kindness.  Impulsively  generous  she  had  always 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  293 

been ;  but  there  was  a  touching  and  womanly  thoughtfulness 
about  her  now,  that  every  one  noticed.  She  still  loved  to  play 
with  Topsy,  and  the  various  colored  children  ;  but  she  now 
seemed  rather  a  spectator  than  an  actor  of  their  plays,  and  she 
would  sit  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  laughing  at  the  odd  tricks 
of  Topsy,  —  and  then  a  shadow  would,  seem  to  pass  across  her 
face,  her  eyes  grew  misty,  and  her  thoughts  were  afar. 

"  Mamma,"  she  said,  suddenly,  to  her  mother,  one  day,  "  why 
don't  we  teach  our  servants  to  read  ?  " 

"  What  a  question,  child  !     People  never  do." 

"  Why  don't  they  ?  "  said  Eva. 

"  Because  it  is  no  use  for  them  to  read.  It  don't  help  them 
to  work  any  better,  and  they  are  not  made  for  anything  else." 

"  But  they  ought  to  read  the  Bible,  mamma,  to  learn  God\ 
will." 

"  Oh,  they  can  get  that  read  to  them  all  they  need." 

"  It  seems  to  me,  mamma,  the  Bible  is  for  every  one  to  read 
themselves.  They  need  it  a  great  many  times  when  there  is 
nobody  to  read  it." 

"  Eva,  you  are  an  odd  child,"  said  her  mother. 

"  Miss  Ophelia  has  taught  Topsy  to  read,"  continued  Eva. 

"  Yes,  and  you  see  how  much  good  it  does.  Topsy  is  the 
worst  creature  I  ever  saw !  " 

"  Here  's  poor  Mammy  !  "  said  Eva.  "  She  does  love  the 
Bible  so  much,  and  wishes  so  she  could  read !  And  what  will 
she  do  when  I  can't  read  to  her  ?  " 

Marie  was  busy  turning  over  the  contents  of  a  drawer,  as  she 
answered,  — 

"  AVell,  of  course,  by  and  by,  Eva,  you  will  have  other  things 
to  think  of,  besides  reading  the  Bible  round  to  servants.  Not 
but  that  is  very  proper ;  I  Ve  done  it  myself,  when  I  had  health. 
But  when  you  come  to  be  dressing  and  going  into  company,  you 
won't  have  time.  See  here!"  she  added,  "these  jewels  I'm 
going  to  give  you  when  you  come  out.  I  wore  them  to  my  first 
ball.  I  can  tell  you,  Eva,  I  made  a  sensation." 

Eva  took  the  jewel-case,  and  lifted  from  it  a  diamond  neck 
lace.  Her  large,  thoughtful  eyes  rested  on  them,  but  it  was 
plain  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

"  How  sober  you  look,  child !  "  said  Marie. 


294  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Are  these  worth  a  great  deal  of  money,  mamma  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  they  are.  Father  sent  to  France  for  them. 
They  are  worth  a  small  fortune." 

"  I  wish  I  had  them,"  said  Eva,  "  to  do  what  I  pleased 
with!" 

"  What  would  you  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  I  'd  sell  them,  and  buy  a  place  in  the  free  states,  and  take 
all  our  people  there,  and  hire  teachers,  to  teach  them  to  read 
and  write." 

Eva  was  cut  short  by  her  mother's  laughing. 

"  Set  up  a  boarding-school !  Would  n't  you  teach  them  to 
play  on  the  piano,  and  paint  on  velvet  ?  " 

"  I  'd  teach  them  to  read  their  own  Bible,  and  write  their 
own  letters,  and  read  letters  that  are  written  to  them,"  said 
Eva,  steadily.  "  I  know,  mamma,  it  does  come  very  hard  on 
them,  that  they  can't  do  these  things.  Tom  feels  it,  —  Mammy 
does,  —  a  great  many  of  them  do.  I  think  it 's  wrong." 

"  Come,  come,  Eva ;  you  are  only  a  child  !  You  don't  know 
anything  about  these  things,"  said  Marie  ;  "  besides,  your  talking 
makes  my  head  ache." 

Marie  always  had  a  headache  on  hand  for  any  conversation 
that  did  not  exactly  suit  her. 

Eva  stole  away ;  but  after  that,  she  assiduously  gave  Mammy 
reading  lessons. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  295 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

HENRIQUE. 

ABOUT  this  time,  St.  Clare's  brother  Alfred,  with  his  eldest 
son,  a  boy  of  twelve,  spent  a  day  or  two  with  the  family  at  the 
lake. 

No  sight  could  be  more  singular  and  beautiful  than  that  of 
these  twin  brothers.  Nature,  instead  of  instituting  resemblances 
between  them,  had  made  them  opposites  on  every  point ;  yet  a 
mysterious  tie  seemed  to  unite  them  in  a  closer  friendship  than 
ordinary. 

They  used  to  saunter,  arm  in  arm,  up  and  down  the  alleys 
and  walks  of  the  garden,  —  Augustine,  with  his  blue  eyes  and 
golden  hair,  his  ethereally  flexible  form  and  vivacious  features  ; 
and  Alfred,  dark-eyed,  with  haughty  Roman  profile,  firmly  knit 
limbs,  and  decided  bearing.  They  were  always  abusing  each 
other's  opinions  and  practices,  and  yet  never  a  whit  the  less  ab 
sorbed  in  each  other's  society ;  in  fact,  the  very  contrariety 
seemed  to  unite  them,  like  the  attraction  between  opposite  poles 
of  the  magnet. 

Henrique,  the  eldest  son  of  Alfred,  was  a  noble,  dark-eyed, 
princely  boy,  full  of  vivacity  and  spirit ;  and,  from  the  first 
moment  of  introduction,  seemed  to  be  perfectly  fascinated  by 
the  spirituelle  graces  of  his  cousin  Evangeline. 

Eva  had  a  little  pet  pony,  of  a  snowy  whiteness.  It  was 
easy  as  a  cradle,  and  as  gentle  as  its  little  mistress  ;  and  this 
pony  was  now  brought  up  to  the  back  veranda  by  Tom,  while 
a  little  mulatto  boy  of  about  thirteen  led  along  a  small  black 
Arabian,  which  had  just  been  imported,  at  a  great  expense,  for 
lenrique. 

Henrique  had  a  boy's  pride  in  his  new  possession  ;  and,  as  he 
advanced  and  took  the  reins  out  of  the  hands  of  his  little  groom, 
he  looked  carefully  over  him,  and  his  brow  darkened. 


296  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  What 's  this,  Dodo,  you  little  lazy  dog  !  you  have  n't  rubbed 
my  horse  down,  this  morning." 

"  Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Dodo,  submissively  ;  "  he  got  that  dust  on 
his  own  self." 

"  You  rascal,  shut  your  mouth  !  "  said  Henrique,  violently 
raising  his  riding-whip.  "  How  dare  you  speak  ?  " 

The  boy  was  a  handsome,  bright-eyed  mulatto,  of  just  Hen 
rique's  size,  and  his  curling  hair  hung  round  a  high  bold  fore 
head.  He  had  white  blood  in  his  veins,  as  could  be  seen  by 
the  quick  flush  in  his  cheek,  and  the  sparkle  of  his  eye,  as  he 
eagerly  tried  to  speak. 

"  Mas'r  Henrique  !  "  —  he  began. 

Henrique  struck  him  across  the  face  with  his  riding-whip, 
and,  seizing  one  of  his  arms,  forced  him  on  to  his  knees,  and 
beat  him  till  he  was  out  of  breath. 

"  There,  you  impudent  dog !  Now  will  you  learn  not  to  an- 
swer  back  when  I  speak  to  you  ?  Take  the  horse  back,  and 
clean  him  properly.  I  '11  teach  you  your  place  !  " 

"  Young  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  "  I  specs  what  he  was  gwine  to 
say  was,  that  the  horse  would  roll  when  he  was  bringing  him 
up  from  the  stable  ;  he  's  so  full  of  spirits,  —  that 's  the  way  he 
got  that  dirt  on  him  ;  I  looked  to  his  cleaning." 

"  You  hold  your  tongue  till  you  're  asked  to  speak  ! "  said 
Henrique,  turning  on  his  heel,  and  walking  up  the  steps  to  speak 
to  Eva,  who  stood  in  her  riding-dress. 

"  Dear  cousin,  I  'm  sorry  this  stupid  fellow  has  kept  you 
waiting,"  he  said.  "  Let 's  sit  down  here,  on  this  seat,  till  they 
come.  What 's  the  matter,  cousin  ?  —  you  look  sober." 

"  How  could  you  be  so  cruel  and  wicked  to  poor  Dodo  ?  "  said 
Eva. 

"  Cruel,  —  wicked  !  "  said  the  boy,  with  unaffected  surprise. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  dear  Eva  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  call  me  dear  Eva,  when  you  do  so/ 
said  Eva, 

"  Dear  cousin,  you  don't  know  Dodo ;  it  is  the  only  way  to 
manage  him,  he  's  so  full  of  lies  and  excuses.  The  only  way  is 
to  put  him  down  at  once,  —  not  let  him  open  his  mouth ;  that  's 
the  way  papa  manages." 

t(  But  Uncle  Tom  said  it  was  an  accident,  and  he  never  tells 
what  is  n't  true." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  297 

"  He  's  an  uncommon  old  nigger,  then !  "  said  Henrique. 
"  Dodo  ivill  lie  as  fast  as  he  can  speak." 

"  You  frighten  him  into  deceiving,  if  you  treat  him  so." 

"  Why,  Eva,  you  've  really  taken  such  a  fancy  to  Dodo,  that 
I  shall  be  jealous." 

"  But  you  beat  him,  — and  he  did  n't  deserve  it." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  may  go  for  some  time  when  he  does,  and  don't 
get  it.  A  few  cuts  never  come  amiss  with  Dodo,  —  he  's  a 
regular  spirit,  I  can  tell  you ;  but  I  won't  beat  him  again  be 
fore  you,  if  it  troubles  you." 

Eva  was  not  satisfied,  but  found  it  in  vain  to  try  to  make  her 
handsome  cousin  understand  her  feelings. 

Dodo  soon  appeared  with  the  horses. 

"  Well,  Dodo,  you  Ve  done  pretty  well,  this  time,"  said  his 
young  master,  with  a  more  gracious  air.  "Come,  now,  and 
hold  Miss  Eva's  horse,  while  I  put  her  on  the  saddle." 

Dodo  came  and  stood  by  Eva's  pony.  His  face  was  troubled, 
his  eyes  looked  as  if  he  had  been  crying. 

Henrique,  who  valued  himself  on  his  gentlemanly  adroitness 
in  all  matters  of  gallantry,  soon  had  his  fair  cousin  in  the  sad 
dle,  and,  gathering  the  reins,  placed  them  in  her  hands. 

But  Eva  bent  to  the  other  side  of  the  horse,  where  Dodo  was 
standing,  and  said,  as  he  relinquished  the  reins,  —  "  That 's  a 
good  boy,  Dodo  ;  —  thank  you  !  " 

Dodo  looked  up  in  amazement  into  the  sweet  young  face; 
the  blood  rushed  to  his  cheeks,  and  tears  to  his  eyes. 

<k  Here,  Dodo,"  said  his  master,  imperiously. 

Dodo  sprang  and  held  the  horse,  while  his  master  mounted. 

"  There  's  a  picayune  for  you  to  buy  candy  with,  Dodo,"  said 
Henrique  ;  "  go  get  some." 

And  Henrique  cantered  down  the  walk  after  Eva.  Dodo 
stood  looking  after  the  two  children.  One  had  given  him 
money ;  and  one  had  given  him  what  he  wanted  far  more,  — 
a  kind  word,  kindly  spoken.  Dodo  had  been  only  a  few  months 
away  from  his  mother.  His  master  had  bought  him  at  a  slave 
warehouse,  for  his  handsome  tace,  to  be  a  match  to  the  hand 
some  pony  ;  and  he  was  now  getting  his  breaking  in,  at  the 
hands  of  his  young  master. 

The  scene  of  the  beating  had  been  witnessed  by  the  two 
brothers  St.  Clare,  from  another  part  of  the  garden. 


298  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

Augustine's  cheek  flushed ;  but  he  only  observed,  with  his 
usual  sarcastic  carelessness,  — 

"  I  suppose  that 's  what  we  may  call  republican  education, 
Alfred  ?  " 

"  Henrique  is  a  devil  of  a  fellow,  when  his  blood  's  up,"  said 
Alfred,  carelessly. 

"  I  suppose  you  consider  this  an  instructive  practice  for  him," 
said  Augustine,  dryly. 

"  I  could  n't  help  it,  if  I  did  n't.  Henrique  is  a  regular  little 
tempest ;  —  his  mother  and  I  have  given  him  up,  long  ago.  But, 
then,  that  Dodo  is  a  perfect  sprite,  —  no  amount  of  whipping 
can  hurt  him." 

"  And  this  by  way  of  teaching  Henrique  the  first  verse  of  a 
republican's  catechism,  '  All  men  are  born  free  and  equal ! '  : 

"  Poh !  "  said  Alfred ;  "  one  of  Tom  Jefferson's  pieces  of 
French  sentiment  and  humbug.  It's  perfectly  ridiculous  to 
have  that  going  the  rounds  among  us,  to  this  day." 

"I  think  it  is,"  said  St.  Clare,  significantly. 

"  Because,"  said  Alfred,  "  we  can  see  plainly  enough  that 
all  men  are  not  born  free,  nor  born  equal ;  they  are  born  any 
thing  else.  For  my  part,  I  think  half  this  republican  talk  sheer 
humbug.  It  is  the  educated,  the  intelligent,  the  wealthy,  the 
refined,  who  ought  to  have  equal  rights,  and  not  the  canaille.'" 

"  If  you  can  keep  the  canaille  of  that  opinion,"  said  Augustine. 
"  They  took  their  turn  once,  in  France." 

"  Of  course,  they  must  be  kept  down,  consistently,  steadily,  as 
I  should"  said  Alfred,  setting  his  foot  hard  down,  as  if  he  were 
standing  on  somebody. 

"  It  makes  a  terrible  slip  when  they  get  up,"  said  Augustine, 
—  "  in  St.  Domingo,  for  instance." 

"Poh  !  "  said  Alfred,  *'  we  '11  take  care  of  that,  in  this  coun 
try.  We  must  set  our  face  against  all  this  educating,  elevating 
talk,  that  is  getting  about  now ;  the  lower  class  must  not  be 
educated." 

"  That  is  past  praying  for,"  said  Augustine  ;  "  educated  they 
will  be,  and  we  have  only  to  say  how.  Our  system  is  educating 
them  in  barbarism  and  brutality.  We  are  breaking  all  humaniz 
ing  ties,  and  making  them  brute  beasts ;  and,  if  they  get  th« 
upper  hand,  such  we  shall  find  them." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  299 

"  They  never  shall  get  the  upper  hand !  "  said  Alfred. 

"  That 's  right,"  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  put  on  the  steam,  fasten 
down  the  escape-valve,  and  sit  on  it,  and  see  where  you'll 
land." 

"  Well,"  said  Alfred,  "  we  will  see.  I  'm  not  afraid  to  sit  on 
the  escape-valve,  as  long  as  the  boilers  are  strong,  and  the  ma 
chinery  works  well." 

"  The  nobles  in  Louis  XVI.'s  time  thought  just  so ;  and 
Austria  arid  Pius  IX.  think  so  now  ;  and.  some  pleasant  morn' 
ing,  you  may  all  be  caught  up  to  meet  each  other  in  the  air, 
when  the  boilers  bwst." 

"Dies  declarabit"  said  Alfred,  laughing. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Augustine,  "  if  there  is  anything  that  is 
revealed  with  the  strength  of  a  divine  law  in  our  times,  it  is  that 
the  masses  are  to  rise,  and  the  under  class  become  the  upper 

«2£i' 

"  That 's  one  of  your  red  republican  humbugs,  Augustine ! 
Why  did  n't  you  ever  take  to  the  stump  ;  —  you  'd  make  a 
famous  stump  orator  !  Well,  I  hope  I  shall  be  dead  before  this 
millennium  of  your  greasy  masses  comes  on." 

"  Greasy  or  not  greasy,  they  will  govern  you,  when  their  time 
comes,"  said  Augustine ;  "  and  they  will  be  just  such  rulers  as 
you  make  them.  The  French  noblesse  chose  to  have  the  people 
'  sans  culotte,'  and  they  had  '  sans  culotte '  governors  to  their 
hearts'  content.  The  people  of  Hayti  "  — 

"  Oh,  come,  Augustine,  as  if  we  had  n't  had  enough  of  that 
abominable,    contemptible  Hayti !     The  Haytiens  were  not  An 
glo-Saxons  ;  if  they  had  been,  there  would  have  been  another 
story.     The  Anglo-Saxon  is  the  dominant  race  of  the  world,  and  f 
is  to  be  so." 

"  Well,  there  is  a  pretty  fair  infusion  of  Anglo-Saxon  blood 
among  our  slaves,  now,"  said  Augustine.  "There  are  plenty 
among  them  who  have  only  enough  of  the  African  to  give  a  sort 
of  tropical  warmth  and  fervor  to  our  calculating  firmness  and 
foresight.  If  ever  the  San  Domingo  hour  comes,  Anglo-Saxon 
blood  will  lead  on  the  day.  Sons  of  white  fathers,  with  all  our 
haughty  feelings  burning  in  their  veins,  will  not  always  be 
bought  and  sold  and  traded.  They  will  rise,  and  raise  with 
them  their  mother's  race." 


300  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  Stuff !  —  nonsense  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Augustine,  "  there  goes  an  old  saying  to  this 

effect :  <  As  it  was  in  the  days  of  Noah,  so  shall  it  be ; they 

ate,  they  drank,  they  planted,  they  builded,  and  knew  not  till  the 
flood  came  and  took  them. ' ' 

"  On  the  whole,  Augustine,  I  think  your  talents  might  do  for 
a  circuit  -  rider,"  said  Alfred,  laughing.  "  Never  you  fear  for 
us  ;  possession  is  our  nine  points.  We  Ve  got  the  power.  This 
subject  race,"  said  he,  stamping  firmly,  "  is  down,  and  shall  stay 
down !  We  have  energy  enough  to  manage  our  own  powder." 

"  Sons  trained  like  your  Henrique  will  be  grand  guardians 
of  your  powder-magazines,"  said  Augustine,  —  "  so  cool  and 
self-possessed  !  The  proverb  says,  '  They  that  cannot  govern 
themselves  cannot  govern  others." 

"There  is  a  trouble  there,"  said  Alfred,  thoughtfully; 
"  there 's  no  doubt  that  our  system  is  a  difficult  one  to  train 
children  under.  It  gives  too  free  scope  to  the  passions,  alto 
gether,  which,  in  our  climate,  are  hot  enough.  I  find  trouble 
with  Henrique.  The  boy  is  generous  and  warm-hearted,  but 
a  perfect  fire-cracker  when  excited.  I  believe  I  shall  send  him 
north  for  his  education,  where  obedience  is  more  fashionable, 
and  where  he  will  associate  more  with  equals,  and  less  with  de 
pendants." 

"Since  training  children  is  the  staple  work  of  the  human 
race,"  said  Augustine,  "  I  should  think  it  something  of  a  con 
sideration  that  our  system  does  not  work  well  there." 

"  It  does  not  for  some  things,"  said  Alfred ;  "  for  others, 
again,  it  does.  It  makes  boys  manly  and  courageous  ;  and  the 
very  vices  of  an  abject  race  tend  to  strengthen  in  them  the  op 
posite  virtues.  I  think  Henrique,  now,  has  a  keener  sense  of 
the  beauty  of  truth,  from  seeing  lying  and  deception  the  uni 
versal  badge  of  slavery." 

"  A  Christian-like  view  of  the  subject,  certainly  !  "  said  Augus 
tine. 

"  It 's  true,  Christian-like  or  not ;  and  is  about  as  Christian- 
like  as  most  other  things  in  the  world,"  said  Alfred. 

"That  may  be,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Well  there  's  no  use  in  talking,  Augustine.  I  believe  we  Ve 
been  round  and  round  this  old  track  five  hundred  times,  more 
or  less.  What  do  you  say  to  a  game  of  backgammon  ?  " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  301 

The  two  brothers  ran  up  the  veranda  steps,  and  were  soon 
seated  at  a  light  bamboo  stand,  with  the  backgammon-board 
between  them.  As  they  were  setting  their  men,  Alfred  said,  — 

"  I  tell  you,  Augustine,  if  I  thought  as  you  do,  I  should  do 
something." 

"  I  dare  say  you  would,  —  you  are  one  of  the  doing  sort,  — 
but  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  elevate  your  own  servants,  for  a  specimen,"  said  Al 
fred,  with  a  half-scornful  smile. 

"  You  might  as  well  set  Mount  uEtna  on  them  flat,  and  tell 
them  to  stand  up  under  it,  as  tell  me  to  elevate  my  servants 
under  all  the  superincumbent  mass  of  society  upon  them.  One 
man  can  do  nothing,  against  the  whole  action  of  a  community. 
Education,  to  do  anything,  must  be  a  state  education  ;  or  there 
must  be  enough  agreed  in  it  to  make  a  current." 

"  You  take  the  first  throw,"  said  Alfred  ;  and  the  brothers 
were  soon  lost  in  the  game,  and  heard  no  more  till  the  scraping 
of  horses'  feet  was  heard  under  the  veranda. 

"  There  come  the  children,"  said  Augustine,  rising.  "  Look 
here,  Alf  !  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  beautiful  ?  "  And, 
in  truth,  it  was  a  beautiful  sight.  Henrique,  with  his  bold 
brow,  and  dark,  glossy  curls,  and  glowing  cheek,  was  laughing 
gayly,  as  he  bent  towards  his  fair  cousin,  as  they  ca^\e  on.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  blue  riding-dress,  with  a  cap  of  the  same  color. 
Exercise  had  given  a  brilliant  hue  to  her  cheeks,  and  height 
ened  the  effect  of  her  singularly  transparent  skin,  and  golden 
hair. 

"  Good  heavens !  what  perfectly  dazzling  beauty  !  "  said  Al 
fred.  "  I  tell  you,  Auguste,  won't  she  make  some  hearts  ache, 
one  of  these  days  ?  " 

"  She  will,  too  truly,  —  God  knows  I  'm  afraid  so  !  "  said  St. 
Clare,  in  a  tone  of  sudden  bitterness,  as  he  hurried  down  to  take 
her  off  her  horse. 

"  Eva,  darling !  you  're  not  much  tired  ?  "  he  said,  as  he 
clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

u  No,  papa,"  said  the  child  ;  but  her  short,  hard  breathing 
alarmed  her  father. 

"  How  could  you  ride  so  fast,  dear  ?  —  you  know  it  "s  bad  for 
you." 


302  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  I  felt  so  well,  papa,  and  liked  it  so  much,  I  forgot." 

St.  Clare  carried  her  in  his  arms  into  the  parlor,  and  laid  her 
on  the  sofa. 

"  Henrique,  you  must  be  careful  of  Eva,"  said  he  ;  "  you 
must  n't  ride  fast  with  her." 

"  I  '11  take  her  under  my  care,"  said  Henrique,  seating  him 
self  by  the  sofa,  and  taking  Eva's  hand. 

Eva  soon  found  herself  much  better.  Her  father  and  uncl« 
resumed  their  game,  and  the  children  were  left  together. 

"  Do  you  know,  Eva,  I  'in  so  sorry  papa  is  only  going  to  stay 
two  days  here,  and  then  I  shan't  see  you  again  for  ever  so  long  ! 
If  I  stay  with  you,  I  'd  try  to  be  good,  and  not  be  cross  to  Dodo, 
and  so  on.  I  don't  mean  to  treat  Dodo  ill ;  but,  you  know, 
I  've  got  such  a  quick  temper.  I  'm  not  really  bad  to  him, 
though.  I  give  him  a  picayune,  now  and  then  ;  and  you  see  he 
dresses  well.  I  think,  on  the  whole,  Dodo  's  pretty  well  off." 

"  Would  you  think  you  were  well  off,  if  there  were  not  one 
creature  in  the  world  near  you  to  love  you  ?  " 

«  I  ?  _  Well,  of  course  not." 

"  And  you  have  taken  Dodo  away  from  all  the  friends  he  ever 
had,  and  now  he  has  not  a  creature  to  love  him  ;  —  nobody  can 
be  good  that  way." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it,  as  I  know  of.  I  can't  get  his  mother, 
and  I  can't  love  him  myself,  nor  anybody  else,  as  I  know  of." 

"  Why  can't  you  ?  "  said  Eva. 

"  Love  Dodo  !  Why,  Eva,  you  would  n't  have  me  !  I  may 
like  him  well  enough ;  but  you  don't  love  your  servants." 

"  I  do,  indeed." 

«  How  odd  !  " 

"  Don't  the  Bible  say  we  must  love  everybody  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  Bible  !  To  be  sure,  it  says  a  great  many  such 
things;  but,  then,  nobody  ever  thinks  of  doing  them, — you 
know,  Eva,  nobody  does." 

Eva  did  not  speak ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  and  thoughtful,  for  a 
few  moments. 

"  At  any  rate,"  she  said,  "  dear  cousin,  do  love  poor  Dodo, 
and  be  kind  to  him,  for  my  sake !  " 

"  I  could  love  anything,  for  your  sake,  dear  cousin  ;  for  I 
really  think  you  are  the  loveliest  creature  that  I  ever  saw !  " 


LTFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  303 

And  Henrique  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that  flushed  his  hand 
some  face.  Eva  received  it  with  perfect  simplicity,  without  even 
a  change  of  feature ;  merely  saying,  "  I  'm  glad  you  feel  so,  dear 
Henrique !  I  hope  you  will  remember." 

The  dianer-bell  put  an  end  to  the  interview. 


304  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OB, 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

FOKESHADOWINGS. 

Two  days  after  this,  Alfred  St.  Clare  and  Augustine  parted  ; 
and  Eva,  who  had  been  stimulated,  by  the  society  of  her  young 
cousin,  to  exertions  beyond  her  strength,  began  to  fail  rapidly. 
St.  Clare  was  at  last  willing  to  call  in  medical  advice,  —  a  thing 
from  which  he  had  always  shrunk,  because  it  was  the  admission 
of  an  unwelcome  truth. 

But,  for  a  day  or  two,  Eva  was  so  unwell  as  to  be  confined  to 
the  house  ;  and  the  doctor  was  called. 

Marie  St.  Clare  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  child's  gradually 
decaying  health  and  strength,  because  she  was  completely  ab 
sorbed  in  studying  out  two  or  three  new  forms  of  disease  to 
which  she  believed  she  herself  was  a  victim.  It  was  the  first 
principle  of  Marie's  belief  that  nobody  ever  was  or  could  be  so 
great  a  sufferer  as  herself;  and,  therefore,  she  always  repelled 
quite  indignantly  any  suggestion  that  any  one  around  her  could 
be  sick.  She  was  always  sure,  in  such  a  case,  that  it  was  noth 
ing  but  laziness,  or  want  of  energy ;  and  that,  if  they  had  had 
the  suffering  she  had,  they  would  soon  know  the  difference. 

Miss  Ophelia  had  several  times  tried  to  awaken  her  maternal 
fears  about  Eva  ;  but  to  no  avail. 

"  I  don't  see  as  anything  ails  the  child,"  she  would  say ;  "  she 
runs  about,  and  plays." 

u  But  she  has  a  cough." 

"  Cough  !  you  don't  need  to  tell  me  about  a  cough.  I  've 
always  been  subject  to  a  cough,  all  my  days.  When  I  was  of 
Eva's  age,  they  thought  I  was  in  a  consumption.  Night  after 
nig] it,  Mammy  used  to  sit  up  with  me.  Oh,  Eva's  cough  is  not 
anything." 

"  But  she  gets  weak,  and  is  short-breathed." 

"  Law  !  I  Ve  had  that,  years  and  years  ;  it  's  only  a  nervous 
affection." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  305 

"  But  she  sweats  so,  nights  !  " 

"  Well,  I  have,  these  ten  years.  Very  often,  night  after 
night,  my  clothes  will  be  wringing  wet.  There  won't  be  a  dry 
thread  in  my  night-clothes,  and  the  sheets  will  be  so  that  Mammy 
has  to  hang  them  up  to  dry  !  Eva  does  n't  sweat  anything  like 
that !  " 

Miss  Ophelia  shut  her  mouth  for  a  season.  But,  now  that 
Eva  was  fairly  and  visibly  prostrated,  and  a  doctor  called,  Marie, 
all  on  a  sudden,  took  a  new  turn. 

She  knew  it,  she  said ;  she  always  felt  it,  that  she  was  des 
tined  to  be  the  most  miserable  of  mothers.  Here  she  was,  with 
her  wretched  health,  and  her  only  darling  child  going  down  to 
the  grave  before  her  eyes  !  And  Marie  routed  up  Mammy 
nights,  and  rumpussed  and  scolded,  with  more  energy  than  ever, 
all  day,  on  the  strength  of  this  new  misery. 

"  My  dear  Marie,  don't  talk  so !  "  said  St.  Clare.  "  You 
ought  not  to  give  up  the  case  so,  at  once." 

"  You  have  not  a  mother's  feelings,  St.  Clare.  You  never 
could  understand  me  !  —  you  don't  now." 

"  But  don't  talk  so,  as  if  it  were  a  gone  case  !  " 

"  I  can't  take  it  as  indifferently  as  you  can,  St.  Clare.  If 
you  don't  feel  when  your  only  child  is  in  this  alarming  state, 
I  do.  It 's  a  blow  too  much  for  me,  with  all  I  was  bearing 
before." 

"  It 's  true,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  that  Eva  is  very  delicate,  that  I 
always  knew ;  and  that  she  has  grown  so  rapidly  as  to  exhaust 
her  strength ;  and  that  her  situation  is  critical.  But  just  now 
she  is  only  prostrated  by  the  heat  of  the  weather,  and  by  the 
excitement  of  her  cousin's  visit,  and  the  exertions  she  made. 
The  physician  says  there  is  room  for  hope." 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  you  can  look  on  the  bright  side,  pray  do  ; 
it 's  a  mercy  if  people  have  n't  sensitive  feelings,  in  this  world. 
I  am  sure  I  wish  I  did  n't  feel  as  I  do  ;  it  only  makes  me 
completely  wretched  !  I  wish  I  could  be  as  easy  as  the  rest  of 
you !  " 

And  the  "  rest  of  them  "  had  good  reason  to  breathe  the  same 

prayer,  for  Marie  paraded   her  new  misery  as  the  reason  and 

apology  for    all    sorts   of    inflictions   on  every   one  about  her. 

Every  word  that  was  spoken  by  anybody,  everything  that  was 

20 


806  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

done  or  was  not  done  everywhere,  was  only  a  new  proof  that  she 
was  surrounded  by  hard-hearted,  insensible  beings,  who  were 
unmindful  of  her  peculiar  sorrows.  Poor  Eva  heard  some  of 
these  speeches ;  and  nearly  cried  her  little  eyes  out,  in  pity 
for  her  mamma,  and  in  sorrow  that  she  should  make  her  so  much 
distress. 

In  a  week  or  two,  there  was  a  great  improvement  of  symp 
toms,  —  one  of  those  deceitful  lulls,  by  which  her  inexorable  dis 
ease  so  often  beguiles  the  anxious  heart,  even  on  the  verge  of 
the  grave.  Eva's  step  was  again  in  the  garden,  —  in  the  balco 
nies  ;  she  played  and  laughed  again,  —  and  her  father,  in  a  trans 
port,  declared  that  they  should  soon  have  her  as  hearty  as  any 
body.  Miss  Ophelia  and  the  physician  alone  felt  no  encourage 
ment  from  this  illusive  truce.  There  was  one  other  heart,  too, 
that  felt  the  same  certainty,  and  that  was  the  little  heart  of  Eva. 
What  is  it  that  sometimes  speaks  in  the  soul  so  calmly,  so  clearly, 
that  its  earthly  time  is  short  ?  Is  it  the  secret  instinct  of  decay 
ing  nature,  or  the  soul's  impulsive  throb,  as  immortality  draws 
on  ?  Be  it  what  it  may,  it  rested  in  the  heart  of  Eva,  a  calm, 
sweet,  prophetic  certainty  that  heaven  was  near ;  calm  as  the 
light  of  sunset,  sweet  as  the  bright  stillness  of  autumn,  there  her 
little  heart  reposed,  only  troubled  by  sorrow  for  those  who  loved 
her  so  dearly. 

For  the  child,  though  nursed  so  tenderly,  and  though  life  was 
unfolding  before  her  with  every  brightness  that  love  and  wealth 
could  give,  had  no  regret  for  herself  in  dying. 

In  that  book  which  she  and  her  simple  old  friend  had  read  so 
much  together,  she  had  seen  and  taken  to  her  young  heart  the 
image  of  One  who  loved  the  little  child  ;  and,  as  she  gazed  and 
mused,  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  image  and  a  picture  of  the  distant 
past,  and  come  to  be  a  living,  all-surrounding  reality.  His  love 
enfolded  her  childish  heart  with  more  than  mortal  tenderness  ; 
and  it  was  to  him,  she  said,  she  was  going,  and  to  his  home. 

But  her  heart  yearned  with  sad  tenderness  for  all  that  she  was 
to  leave  behind.  Her  father  most,  —  for  Eva,  though  she  never 
distinctly  thought  so,  had  an  instinctive  perception  that  she  was 
more  in  his  heart  that  any  other.  She  loved  her  mother  because 
she  was  so  loving  a  creature,  and  all  the  selfishness  that  she 
had  seen  in  her  only  saddened  and  perplexed  her  ;  for  she  had 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  307 

a  child's  implicit  trust  that  her  mother  could  not  do  wrong. 
There  was  something  about  her  that  Eva  never  could  make  out ; 
and  she  always  smoothed  it  over  with  thinking  that,  after  all,  it 
was  mamma,  and  she  loved  her  very  dearly  indeed. 

She  felt,  too,  for  those  fond,  faithful  servants,  to  whom  she 
was  as  daylight  and  sunshine.  Children  do  not  usually  general 
ize  ;  but  Eva  was  an  uncommonly  mature  child,  and  the  things 
that  she  had  witnessed  of  the  evils  of  the  system  under  which 
they  were  living  had  fallen,  one  by  one,  into  the  depths  of  her 
thoughtful,  pondering  heart.  She  had  vague  longings  to  do  some 
thing  for  them,  —  to  bless  and  save  not  only  them,  but  all  in 
their  condition,  —  longings  that  contrasted  sadly  with  the  feeble 
ness  of  her  little  frame. 

"Uncle  Tom,"  she  said,  one  day,  when  she  was  reading  to  her 
friend,  "  I  can  understand  why  Jesus  wanted  to  die  for  us." 

"Why,  Miss  Eva?" 

"  Because  I  Ve  felt  so,  too." 

"  What  is  it,  Miss  Eva  ?  —  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  can't  tell  you ;  but,  when  I  saw  those  poor  creatures  on 
the  boat,  you  know,  when  you  came  up  and  I,  —  some  had  lost 
their  mothers,  and  some  their  husbands,  and  some  mothers  cried 
for  their  little  children,  —  and  when  I  heard  about  poor  Prue,  — 
Oh,  was  n't  that  dreadful !  —  and  a  great  many  other  times, 
I  Ve  felt  that  I  would  be  glad  to  die,  if  my  dying  could  stop  all 
this  misery.  I  would  die  for  them,  Tom,  if  I  could,"  said  the 
child,  earnestly,  laying  her  little  thin  hand  on  his. 

Tom  looked  at  the  child  with  awe  ;  and  when  she,  hearing  her 
father's  voice,  glided  away,  he  wiped  his  eyes  many  times,  as  he 
looked  after  her. 

"  It 's  jest  no  use  tryin'  to  keep  Miss  Eva  here,"  he  said  to 
Mammy,  whom  he  met  a  moment  after.  "  She  's  got  the  Lord's 
mark  in  her  forehead." 

"  Ah,  yes,  yes,"  said  Mammy,  raising  her  hands  ;  "  I  've  al- 
lers  said  so.  She  wasn't  never  like  a  child  that's  to  live, — 
there  was  allers  something  deep  in  her  eyes.  I  've  told  Missis 
so,  many  the  time  ;  it 's  a  comin'  true,  —  we  all  sees  it,  —  dear, 
little,  blessed  lamb  !  " 

Eva  came  tripping  up  the  veranda  steps  to  her  father.  It 
vas  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  formed  a  kind 


308  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

of  glory  behind  her,  as  she  came  forward  in  her  white  dress, 
with  her  golden  hair  and  glowing  cheeks,  her  eyes  unnaturally 
bright  with  the  slow  fever  that  burned  in  her  veins. 

St.  Clare  had  called  her  to  show  a  statuette  that  he  had  been 
buying  for  her  ;  but  her  appearance,  as  she  came  on,  impressed 
him  suddenly  and  painfully.  There  is  a  kind  of  beauty  so  in 
tense,  yet  so  fragile,  that  we  cannot  bear  to  look  at  it.  He,r 
father  folded  her  suddenly  in  his  arms,  and  almost  forgot  what 
he  was  going  to  tell  her. 

"  Eva,  dear,  you  are  better  nowadays,  —  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Papa,"  said  Eva,  with  sudden  firmness,  "  I  've  had  things  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you,  a  great  while.  I  want  to  say  them  now, 
before  I  get  weaker." 

St.  Clare  trembled  as  Eva  seated  herself  in  his  lap.  She  laid 
her  head  on  his  bosom,  and  said,  — 

"  It 's  all  no  use,  papa,  to  keep  it  to  myself  any  longer.  The 
time  is  coming  that  I  am  going  to  leave  you.  I  am  going,  and 
never  to  come  back  !  "  and  Eva  sobbed. 

"  Oh,  now,  my  dear  little  Eva  !  "  said  St.  Clare,  trembling  as 
he  spoke,  but  speaking  cheerfully,  "  you  've  got  nervous  and 
low-spirited  ;  you  must  n't  indulge  such  gloomy  thoughts.  See 
here,  I  've  bought  a  statuette  for  you  !  " 

"  No,  papa,"  said  Eva,  putting  it  gently  away,  "  don't  deceive 
yourself !  —  I  am  not  any  better,  I  know  it  perfectly  well,  —  and 
I  am  going,  before  long.  I  am  not  ne^  7ous,  —  I  am  not  low- 
spirited.  If  it  were  not  for  you,  papa,  and  my  friends,  I  should 
be  perfectly  happy.  I  want  to  go,  —  I  long  to  go  !  " 

"  Why,  dear  child,  what  has  made  your  poor  little  heart  so 
sad  ?  You  have  had  everything,  to  make  you  happy,  that  could 
be  given  you." 

"  I  had  rather  be  in  heaven ;  though,  only  for  my  friends' 
sake,  I  would  be  willing  to  live.  There  are  a  great  many  things 
here  that  make  me  sad,  that  seem  dreadful  to  me  ;  I  had  rather 
be  there  ;  but  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  —  it  almost  breaks  my 
heart !  " 

"  What  makes  you  sad,  and  seems  dreadful,  Eva  ?  " 

"  Oh,  things  that  are  done,  and  done  all  the  time.  I  feel  sad 
for  our  poor  people  ;  they  love  me  dearly,  and  they  are  all  good 
and  kind  to  me.  I  wish,  papa,  they  were  all  free" 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  309 

"  Why,  Eva,  child,  don't  you  think  they  are  well  enough  off 
now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but,  papa,  if  anything  should  happen  to  you,  what  would 
become  of  them?  There  are  very  few  men  like  you,  papa. 
Uncle  Alfred  is  n't  like  you,  and  mamma  is  n't ;  and  then,  think 
of  poor  old  Prue's  owners  !  What  horrid  things  people  do,  and 
can  do !  "  and  Eva  shuddered. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  are  too  sensitive.  I  'm  sorry  I  ever  let 
you  hear  such  stories." 

"  Oh,  that 's  what  troubles  me,  papa.  You  want  me  to  live 
so  happy,  and  never  to  have  any  pain,  —  never  suffer  anything, 
—  not  even  hear  a  sad  story,  when  other  poor  creatures  have 
nothing  but  pain  and  sorrow,  all  their  lives  ;  — it  seems  selfish. 
I  ought  to  know  such  things,  I  ought  to  feel  about  them  !  """"SiFcE 
things  always  sunk  into  my  heart ;  they  went  down  deep  ;  I  've 
thought  and  thought  about  them.  Papa,  is  n't  there  any  way  to 
have  all  slaves  made  free  ?  " 

"  That's  a  difficult  question,  dearest.  There  's  no  doubt  that 
this  way  is  a  very  bad  one ;  a  great  many  people  think  so ;  I 
do  myself.  I  heartily  wish  that  there  were  not  a  slave  in  the 
land  ;  but,  then,  I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done  about  it !  " 

"  Papa,  you  are  such  a  good  man,  and  so  noble,  and  kind, 
and  you  always  have  a  way  of  saying  things  that  is  so  pleasant, 
could  n't  you  go  all  round  and  try  to  persuade  people  to  do 
right  about  this  ?  When  I  am  dead,  papa,  then  you  will  think 
of  me,  and  do  it  for  my  sake.  I  would  do  it,  if  I  could." 

"  When  you  are  dead,  Eva,"  said  St.  Clare,  passionately. 
"  Oh,  child,  don't  talk  to  me  so !  You  are  all  I  have  on  earth." 

"  Poor  old  Prue's  child  was  all  that  she  had,  —  and  yet  she 
had  to  hear  it  crying,  and  she  could  n't  help  it !  Papa,  these 
poor  creatures  love  their  children  as  much  as  you  do  me.  Oh, 
do  something  for  them  !  There  's  poor  Mammy  loves  her  chil 
dren  ;  I  've  seen  her  cry  when  she  talked  about  them.  And 
Tom  loves  his  children ;  and  it 's  dreadful,  papa,  that  such 
things  are  happening,  all  the  time  !  " 

"  There,  there,  darling,"  said  St.  Clare,  soothingly  ;  "  only 
don't  distress  yourself,  and  don't  talk  of  dying,  and  I  will  do 
anything  you  wish." 

"  And  promise  me,  dear  father,  that  Tom  shall  have  his  free- 


310  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

dom  as  soon  as  "  —  she  stopped,  and  said,  in  a  hesitating  tone, 

—  "  I  am  gone !  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  will  do  anything  in  the  world,  —  anything  you 
could  ask  me  to." 

"  Dear  papa,"  said  the  child,  laying  her  burning  cheek 
against  his,  "  how  I  wish  we  could  go  together  !  " 

"  Where,  dearest  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  To  our  Saviour's  home ;  it 's  so  sweet  and  peaceful  there, 

—  it  is  all  so  loving  there  !  "     The  child  spoke  unconsciously,  as 
of  a  place  where  she  had  often  been.     "  Don't  you  want  to  go, 
papa  ?  "  she  said. 

St.  Clare  drew  her  closer  to  him,  but  was  silent. 

"  You  will  come  to  me,"  said  the  child,  speaking  in  a  voice  of 
calm  certainty  which  she  often  used  unconsciously. 

"  I  shall  come  after  you.     I  shall  not  forget  you." 

The  shadows  of  the  solemn  evening  closed  round  them  deeper 
and  deeper,  as  St.  Clare  sat  silently  holding  the  little  frail  form 
to  his  bosom.  He  saw  no  more  the  deep  eyes,  but  the  voice 
came  over  him  as  a  spirit  voice,  and,  as  in  a  sort  of  judgment 
vision,  his  whole  past  life  rose  in  a  moment  before  his  eyes  :  his 
mother's  prayers  and  hymns  ;  his  own  early  yearnings  and  as 
pirings  for  good  ;  and,  between  them  and  this  hour,  years  of 
worldliness  and  scepticism,  and  what  man  calls  respectable  liv 
ing.  We  can  think  much,  very  much,  in  a  moment.  St.  Clare 
saw  and  felt  many  things,  but  spoke  nothing  ;  and,  as  it  grew 
darker,  he  took  his  child  to  her  bedroom  ;  and,  when  she  was 
prepared  for  rest,  he  sent  away  the  attendants,  and  rocked  her 
in  his  arms,  and  sung  to  her  till  she  was  asleep. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  311 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

THE    LITTLE    EVANGELIST. 

IT  was  Sunday  afternoon.  St.  Clare  was  stretched  on  a  bam 
boo  lounge  in  the  veranda,  solacing  himself  with  a  cigar.  Marie 
lay  reclined  on  a  sofa,  opposite  the  window  opening  on  the  ve 
randa,  closely  secluded,  under  an  awning  of  transparent  gauze, 
from  the  outrages  of  the  mosquitoes,  and  languidly  holding  in 
her  hand  an  elegantly  bound  prayer-book.  She  was  holding  it 
because  it  was  Sunday,  and  she  imagined  she  had  been  reading 
it,  —  though,  in  fact,  she  had  been  only  taking  a  succession  of 
short  naps,  with  it  open  in  her  hand. 

Miss  Ophelia,  who,  after  some  rummaging,  had  hunted  up  a 
small  Methodist  meeting  within  riding  distance,  had  gone  out, 
with  Tom  as  driver,  to  attend  it ;  and  Eva  had  accompanied 
them. 

"  I  say,  Augustine,"  said  Marie,  after  dozing  awhile,  "  I  must 
send  to  the  city  after  my  old  Dr.  Posey ;  I  'm  sure  I  ?ve  got  the 
complaint  of  the  heart." 

"  Well ;  why  need  you  send  for  him  ?  This  doctor  that  at 
tends  Eva  seems  skilful." 

"  I  would  not  trust  him  in  a  critical  case,"  said  Marie  ;  "  and 
I  think  I  may  say  mine  is  becoming  so  !  I  've  been  thinking 
of  it,  these  two  or  three  nights  past ;  I  have  such  distressing 
pains,  and  such  strange  feelings." 

"  Oh,  Marie,  you  are  blue ;  I  don't  believe  it 's  heart  com 
plaint." 

"  I  dare  say  you  don't,"  said  Marie  ;  "  I  was  prepared  to  ex 
pect  that.  You  can  be  alarmed  enough,  if  Eva  coughs,  or  has 
the  least  thing  the  matter  with  her  ;  but  you  never  think  of 
me." 

"  If  it 's  particularly  agreeable  to  you  to  have  heart  disease, 
why,  I  '11  try  and  maintain  you  have  it,"  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  I 
didn't  know  it  was." 


312  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

"  Well,  I  only  hope  you  won't  be  sorry  for  this,  when  it 's  too 
late !  "  said  Marie  ;  "  but,  believe  it  or  not,  my  distress  about 
Eva,  and  the  exertions  I  have  made  with  that  dear  child,  have 
developed  what  I  have  long  suspected." 

What  the  exertions  were  which  Marie  referred  to,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  state.  St.  Clare  quietly  made  this  com 
mentary  to  himself,  and  went  on  smoking,  like  a  hard-hearted 
wretch  of  a  man  as  he  was,  till  a  carriage  drove  up  before  the 
veranda,  and  Eva  and  Miss  Ophelia  alighted. 

Miss  Ophelia  marched  straight  to  her  own  chamber,  to  put 
away  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  as  was  always  her  manner,  before 
she  spoke  a  word  on  any  subject ;  while  Eva  came,  at  St.  Clare's 
call,  and  was  sitting  on  his  knee,  giving  him  an  account  of  the 
services  they  had  heard. 

They  soon  heard  loud  exclamations  from  Miss  Ophelia's 
ro  which,  like  the  one  in  which  they  were  sitting,  opened  on 
tc  3  veranda,  and  violent  reproof  addressed  to  somebody. 

V^hat  new  witchcraft  has  Tops  been  brewing  ?  "  asked  St. 
"  That  commotion  is  of  her  raising,  I  '11  be  bound  !  " 

And,  in  a  moment  after,  Miss  Ophelia,  in  high  indignation, 
came  dragging  the  culprit  along. 

"  Come  out  here,  now !  "  she  said.    "  \will  tell  your  master !  " 

"  What 's  the  case  now  ?  "  asked  Augustine. 

"  The  case  is,  that  I  cannot  be  plagued  with  this  child,  any 
longer  !  It 's  past  all  bearing ;  flesh  and  blood  cannot  endure 
it !  Here,  I  locked  her  up,  and  gave  her  a  hymn  to  study  ;  and 
what  does  she  do,  but  spy  out  where  I  put  my  key,  and  has 
gone  to  my  bureau,  and  got  a  bonnet-trimming,  and  cut  it  all  to 
pieces,  to  make  dolls'  jackets  !  I  never  saw  anything  like  it,  in 
my  life  !  " 

"  I  told  you,  cousin,"  said  Marie,  "  that  you  'd  find  out  that 

these  creatures  can't  be  brought  up  without  severity.     If  I  had 

my  way,  now,"  she   said,   looking   reproachfully  at  St.  Clare, 

"I'd  send  that  child  out,  and  have  her  thoroughly  whipped ; 

I  'd  have  her  whipped  till  she  could  n't  stand !  " 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  Tell  me  of  the  lovely 
rule  of  woman !  I  never  saw  above  a  dozen  women  that 
would  n't  half  kill  a  horse,  or  a  servant,  either,  if  they  had  their 
own  way  with  them  !  —  let  alone  a  man." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  313 

"  There  is  no  use  in  this  shilly-shally  way  of  yours,  St. 
Clare !  "  said  Marie.  "  Cousin  is  a  woman  of  sense,  and  she 
sees  it  now,  as  plain  as  I  do." 

Miss  Ophelia  had  just  the  capability  of  indignation  that  be 
longs  to  the  thorough-paced  housekeeper,  and  this  had  been 
pretty  actively  roused  by  the  artifice  and  wastefulness  of  the 
child ;  in  fact,  many  of  my  lady  readers  must  own  that  they 
should  have  felt  just  so  in  her  circumstances  ;  but  Marie's  words 
went  beyond  her,  and  she  felt  less  heat. 

"  I  would  n't  have  the  child  treated  so,  for  the  world,"  she 
said  ;  "  but,  I  am  sure,  Augustine,  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I  Ve  taught  and  taught ;  I  've  talked  till  I  'm  tired ;  I  've 
whipped  her  ;  I  've  punished  her  in  every  way  I  can  think  of, 
and  still  she  's  just  what  she  was  at  first." 

"  Come  here,  Tops,  you  monkey  !  "  said  St.  Clare,  calling  the 
child  up  to  him. 

Topsy  came  up  ;  her  round,  hard  eyes  glittering  and  blinking 
with  a  mixture  of  apprehensiveness  and  their  usual  odd  drollery. 

"  What  makes  you  behave  so  ?  "  said  St.  Clare,  who  could 
not  help  being  amused  with  the  child's  expression. 

"Spects  it's  my  wicked  heart,"  said  Topsy,  demurely; 
"Miss  Feely  says  so." 

"  Don't  you  see  how  much  Miss  Ophelia  has  done  for  you  ? 
She  says  she  has  done  everything  she  can  think  of." 

"  Lor,  yes,  Mas'r !  old  Missis  used  to  say  so,  too.  She 
whipped  me  a  heap  harder,  and  used  to  pull  my  har,  and  knock 
my  head  agin  the  door ;  but  it  did  n't  do  me  no  good  !  I  spects, 
if  they  's  to  pull  every  spear  o'  har  out  o'  my  head,  it  would  n't 
do  no  good,  neither,  —  I 's  so  wicked  !  Laws  !  I 's  nothin'  but 
a  nigger,  no  ways  !  " 

"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  give  her  up,"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  I 
can't  have  that  trouble  any  longer." 

"  Well,  I  'd  just  like  to  ask  one  question,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  your  Gospel  is  not  strong  enough  to  save  one 
heathen  child,  that  you  can  have  at  home  here,  all  to  yourself, 
what 's  the  use  of  sending  one  or  two  poor  missionaries  off  with 
it  among  thousands  of  just  such  ?  I  suppose  this  child  is  about 
a  fair  sample  of  what  thousands  of  your  heathen  are." 


314  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  make  an  immediate  answer ;  and  Eva, 
who  had  stood  a  silent  spectator  of  the  scene  thus  far,  made  a 
silent  sign  to  Topsy  to  follow  her.  There  was  a  little  glass 
room  at  the  corner  of  the  veranda,  which  St.  Clare  used  as  a 
sort  of  reading-room ;  and  Eva  and  Topsy  disappeared  into  this 
place. 

"  What 's  Eva  going  about,  now  ?  "  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  I  mean 
to  see." 

And,  advancing  on  tiptoe,  he  lifted  up  a  curtain  that  covered 
the  glass  door,  and  looked  in.  In  a  moment,  laying  his  finger 
on  his  lips,  he  made  a  silent  gesture  to  Miss  Ophelia  to  come 
and  look.  There  sat  the  two  children  on  the  floor,  with  their 
side  faces  towards  them.  Topsy,  with  her  usual  air  of  careless 
drollery  and  unconcern ;  but,  opposite  to  her,  Eva,  her  whole 
face  fervent  with  feeling,  and  tears  in  her  large  eyes. 

"What  does  make  you. so  bad,  Topsy?  Why  won't  you  try 
and  be  good  ?  Don't  you  love  anybody,  Topsy  ?  " 

"  Dunno  nothing  'bout  love ;  I  loves  candy  and  sich,  that 's 
all,"  said  Topsy. 

"  But  you  love  your  father  and  mother  ?  " 

"  Never  had  none,  ye  know.     I  telled  ye  that,  Miss  Eva." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Eva,  sadly;  "but  hadn't  you  any 
brother,  or  sister,  or  aunt,  or  "  — 

"  No,  none  on  'em,  —  never  had  nothing  nor  nobody." 

"But,  Topsy,  if  you  'd  only  try  to  be  good,  you  might "  — 

"  Could  n't  never  be  nothin'  but  a  nig-ger,  if  I  was  ever  so 
good,"  said  Topsy.  "  If  I  could  be  skinned,  and  come  white, 
I  'd  try  then." 

"  But  people  can  love  you,  if  you  are  black,  Topsy.  Miss 
Ophelia  would  love  you,  if  you  were  good." 

Topsy  gave  the  short,  blunt  laugh  that  was  her  common  mode 
of  expressing  incredulity. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Eva. 

"  No  ;  she  can't  bar  me,  'cause  I  'm  a  nigger !  —  she  'd  's 
soon  have  a  toad  touch  her  !  There  can't  nobody  love  niggers, 
and  niggers  can't  do  nothin' !  /  don't  care,"  said  Topsy,  be 
ginning  to  whistle. 

"  Oh,  Topsy,  poor  child,  /  love  you !  "  said  Eva,  with  a  sud 
den  burst  of  feeling,  and  laying  her  little  thin,  white  hand  OB 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  315 

Topsy's  shoulder ;  "  I  love  you,  because  you  have  n't  had  any 
father,  or  mother,  or  friends ;  —  because  you  've  been  a  poor, 
abused  child  !  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  be  good.  I  am 
very  unwell,  Topsy,  and  I  think  I  shan't  live  a  great  while ; 
and  it  really  grieves  me,  to  have  you  be  so  naughty.  I  wish 
you  would  try  to  be  good,  for  my  sake ;  —  it 's  only  a  little  while 
I  shall  be  with  you." 

The  round,  keen  eyes  of  the  black  child  were  overcast  with 
tears ;  —  large,  bright  drops  rolled  heavily  down,  one  by  one, 
and  fell  on  the  little  white  hand.  Yes,  in  that  moment,  a  ray 
of  real  belief,  a  ray  of  heavenly  love,  had  penetrated  the  dark 
ness  of  her  heathen  soul !  She  laid  her  head  down  between  her 
knees,  and  wept  and  sobbed,  —  while  the  beautiful  child,  bend 
ing  over  her,  looked  like  the  picture  of  some  bright  angel  stoop 
ing  to  reclaim  a  sinner. 

"  Poor  Topsy  !  "  said  Eva,  "  don't  you  know  that  Jesus  loves 
all  alike  ?  He  is  just  as  willing  to  love  you  as  me.  He  loves 
you  just  as  I  do,  —  only  more,  because  he  is  better.  He  will 
help  you  to  be  good ;  and  you  can  go  to  heaven  at  last,  and  be 
an  angel  forever,  just  as  much  as  if  you  were  white.  Only 
think  of  it,  Topsy !  —  you  can  be  one  of  those  spirits  bright, 
Uncle  Tom  sings  about." 

"  Oh,  dear  Miss  Eva,  dear  Miss  Eva!"  said  the  child,  "1 
will  try,  I  will  try  ;  I  never  did  care  nothin'  about  it  before." 

St.  Clare,  at  this  instant,  dropped  the  curtain.  "  It  puts  me 
in  mind  of  mother,"  he  said  to  Miss  Ophelia.  "  It  is  true  what 
she  told  me  ;  if  we  want  to  give  sight  to  the  blind,  we  must  be 
willing  to  do  as  Christ  did,  —  call  them  to  us,  and  put  out- 
hands  on  them" 

"I've  always  had  a  prejudice  against  negroes,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  "  and  it 's  a  fact,  I  never  could  bear  to  have  that  child 
touch  me  ;  but  I  did  n't  think  she  knew  it." 

"  Trust  any  child  to  find  that  out,"  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  there  's 
no  keeping  it  from  them.  But  I  believe  that  all  the  trying  in 
the  world  to  benefit  a  child,  and  all  the  substantial  favors  you 
can  do  them,  will  never  excite  one  emotion  of  gratitude,  while 
that  feeling  of  repugnance  remains  in  the  heart ;  —  it 's  a  queer 
kind  of  a  fact,  —  but  so  it  is." 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  can  help  it,"  said  Miss  Ophelia  ;  "  they 


UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

are  disagreeable  to  me,  —this  child  in  particular,  —  how  can  J 
help  feeling  so  ?  " 

"  Eva  does,  it  seems." 

"Well,  she's  so  loving!  After  all,  though,  she's  no  more 
than  Christ-like,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ;  "  I  wish  I  were  like  her. 
She  might  teach  me  a  lesson." 

"  It  would  n't  be  the  first  time  a  little  child  had  been  used  tc 
instruct  an  old  disciple,  if  it  were  so,"  said  St.  Clare. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

i 

DEATH. 

"  Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 
In  life's  early  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes." 

ETA'S  bedroom  was  a  spacious  apartment,  which,  like  all  the 
other  rooms  in  the  house,  opened  on  to  the  broad  veranda. 
The  room  communicated,  on  one  side,  with  her  father  and  moth 
er's  apartment;  on  the  other,  with  that  appropriated  to  Miss 
Ophelia.  St.  Clare  had  gratified  his  own  eye  and  taste,  in  fur 
nishing  this  room  in  a  style  that  had  a  peculiar  keeping  with 
the  character  of  her  for  whom  it  was  intended.  The  windows 
were  hung  with  curtains  of  rose-colored  and  white  muslin ;  the 
floor  was  spread  with  a  matting  which  had  been  ordered  in 
Paris,  to  a  pattern  of  his  own  device,  having  round  it  a  border 
of  rosebuds  and  leaves,  and  a  centre-piece  with  full-blown  roses. 
The  bedstead,  chairs,  and  lounges  were  of  bamboo,  wrought  in 
peculiarly  graceful  and  fanciful  patterns.  Over  the  head  of 
the  bed  was  an  alabaster  bracket,  on  which  a  beautiful  sculp 
tured  angel  stood,  with  drooping  wings,  holding  out  a  crown  of 
myrtle-leaves.  From  this  depended,  over  the  bed,  light  curtains 
of  rose-colored  gauze,  striped  with  silver,  supplying  that  protec 
tion  from  mosquitoes  which  is  an  indispensable  addition  to  all 
sleeping  accommodation  in  that  climate.  The  graceful  bamboo 
lounges  were  amply  supplied  with  cushions  of  rose-colored  dam 
ask,  while  over  them,  depending  from  the  hands  of  sculptured 
figures,  were  gauze  curtains  similar  to  those  of  the  bed.  A  light, 
fanciful  bamboo  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  where  a 
Parian  vase,  wrought  in  the  shape  of  a  white  lily,  with  its  buds, 
stood,  ever  filled  with  flowers.  On  this  table  lay  Eva's  books 
and  little  trinkets,  with  an  elegantly  wrought  alabaster  writing- 
stand,  which  her  father  had  supplied  to  her  when  he  saw  her 
trying  to  improve  herself  in  writing.  There  was  a  fireplace  in 


318  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

the  room,  and  on  the  marble  mantel  above  stood  a  beautifully- 
wrought  statuette  of  Jesus  receiving  little  children,  and  on  either 
side  marble  vases,  for  which  it  was  Tom's  pride  and  delight  to 
offer  bouquets  every  morning.  Two  or  three  exquisite  paintings 
of  children,  in  various  attitudes,  embellished  the  wall.  In  short, 
the  eye  could  turn  nowhere  without  meeting  images  of  child' 
hood,  of  beauty,  and  of  peace.  Those  little  eyes  never  opened, 
in  the  morning  light,  without  falling  on  something  which  sug 
gested  to  the  heart  soothing  and  beautiful  thoughts. 

The  deceitful  strength  which  had  buoyed  Eva  up  for  a  little 
while  was  fast  passing  away ;  seldom  and  more  seldom  her 
light  footstep  was  heard  in  the  veranda,  and  oftener  and  oftener 
she  was  found  reclined  on  a  little  lounge  by  the  open  window, 
her  large,  deep  eyes  fixed  on  the  rising  and  falling  waters  of 
the  lake. 

It  was  towards  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  as  she  was  so  re 
clining,  —  her  Bible  half  open,  her  little  transparent  fingers  ly 
ing  listlessly  between  the  leaves,  —  suddenly  she  heard  her 
mother's  voice,  in  sharp  tones,  in  the  veranda. 

"  What  now,  you  baggage  !  —  what  new  piece  of  mischief  ! 
You  've  been  picking  the  flowers,  hey  ? "  and  Eva  heard  the 
sound  of  a  smart  slap. 

"  Law,  Missis !  —  they  's  for  Miss  Eva,"  she  heard  a  voice 
say,  which  she  knew  belonged  to  Topsy. 

"  Miss  Eva  !  A  pretty  excuse  !  —  you  suppose  she  wants 
your  flowers,  you  good-for-nothing  nigger  !  Get  along  off  with 
you !  " 

In  a  moment,  Eva  was  off  from  her  lounge,  and  in  the  ve 
randa. 

"  Oh,  don't,  mother  !  I  should  like  the  flowers  ;  do  give  them 
to  me  ;  I  want  them  !  " 

"  Why,  Eva,  your  room  is  full  now." 

"  I  can't  have  too  many,"  said  Eva.  "  Topsy,  do  bring  them 
here." 

Topsy,  who  had  stood  sullenly,  holding  down  her  head,  now 
came  up  and  offered  her  flowers.  She  did  it  with  a  look  of  hes 
itation  and  bashfulness,  quite  unlike  the  eldrich  boldness  and 
brightness  which  was  usual  with  her. 

"  It 's  a  beautiful  bouquet !  "  said  Eva,  looking  at  it. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  319 

It  was  rather  a  singular  one,  —  a  brilliant  scarlet  geranium, 
and  one  single  white  japonica,  with  its  glossy  leaves.  It  was 
tied  up  with  an  evident  eye  to  the  contrast  of  color,  and  the  ar 
rangement  of  every  leaf  had  carefully  been  studied. 

Topsy  looked  pleased,  as  Eva  said,  —  "  Topsy,  you  arrange 
flowers  very  prettily.  Here,"  she  said,  "  is  this  vase  I  have  n't 
any  flowers  for.  I  wish  you  'd  arrange  something  every  day 
for  it." 

"  Well,  that 's  odd  !  "  said  Marie.  "  What  in  the  world  do 
you  want  that  for  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  mamma ;  you  'd  as  lief  as  not  Topsy  should 
do  it,  —  had  you  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  anything  you  please,  dear !  Topsy,  you  hear 
your  young  mistress;  —  see  that  you  mind." 

Topsy  made  a  short  courtesy,  and  looked  down ;  and,  as  she 
turned  away,  Eva  saw  a  tear  roll  down  her  dark  cheek. 

"  You  see,  mamma,  I  knew  poor  Topsy  wanted  to  do  some 
thing  for  me,"  said  Eva  to  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  it  's  only  because  she  likes  to  do  mischief. 
She  knows  she  must  n't  pick  flowers,  —  so  she  does  it,  that  's  all 
there  is  to  it.  But,  if  you  fancy  to  have  her  pluck  them,  so  be 
it." 

"  Mamma,  I  think  Topsy  is  different  from  what  she  used  to 
be  ;  she  's  trying  to  be  a  good  girl." 

"  She  '11  have  to  try  a  good  while  before  she  gets  to  be  good," 
said  Marie  with  a  careless  laugh. 

"  Well,  you  know,  mamma,  poor  Topsy !  everything  has  al 
ways  been  against  her." 

"  Not  since  she  's  been  here,  I  'm  sure.  If  she  has  n't  been 
talked  to,  and  preached  to,  and  every  earthly  thing  done  that 
anybody  could  do ;  —  and  she  's  just  so  ugly,  and  always  will 
be  ;  you  can't  make  anything  of  the  creature  !  " 

"  But,  mamma,  it  's  so  different  to  be  brought  up  as  I  've 
been,  with  so  many  friends,  so  many  things  to  make  me  good 
and  happy ;  and  to  be  brought  up  as  she  's  been,  all  the  time, 
till  she  came  here !  " 

"  Most  likely,"  said  Marie,  yawning,  —  "  dear  me,  how  hot  it 
is!" 

"  Mamma,  you  believe,  don't  you,  that  Topsy  could  become 
an  angel,  as  well  as  any  of  us,  if  she  were  a  Christian  ?  " 


320  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  Topsy !  what  a  ridiculous  idea !  Nobody  but  you  would 
ever  think  of  it.  I  suppose  she  could,  though." 

"  But,  mamma,  is  n't  God  her  father,  as  much  as  ours  ? 
Is  n't  Jesus  her  Saviour  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  may  be.  I  suppose  God  made  everybody,"  said 
Marie.  "  Where  is  my  smelling-bottle  ?  " 

"  It 's  such  a  pity,  —  oh  !  such  a  pity !  "  said  Eva,  looking  out 
on  the  distant  lake,  and  speaking  half  to  herself. 

"  What  's  a  pity  ?  "  said  Marie. 

"  Why,  that  any  one,  who  could  be  a  bright  angel,  and  live 
with  angels,  should  go  all  down,  down,  down,  and  nobody  help 
them  !  —  Oh,  dear  !  " 

"  Well,  we  can't  help  it ;  it 's  no  use  worrying,  Eva !  I  don't 
know  what  's  to  be  done  ;  we  ought  to  be  thankful  for  our  own 
advantages." 

"I  hardly  can  be,"  said  Eva,  "  I  'm  so  sorry  to  think  of  poor 
folks  that  have  n't  any." 

"  That  's  odd  enough,"  said  Marie  ;  —  "I  'm  sure  my  relig 
ion  makes  me  thankful  for  my  advantages." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Eva,  "  I  want  to  have  some  of  my  hair  cut 
off,  —  a  good  deal  of  it." 

"  What  for  ?  "  said  Marie, 

"  Mamma,  I  want  to  give  some  away  to  my  friends,  while  I 
am  able  to  give  it  to  them  myself.  Won't  you  ask  aunty  to 
come  and  cut  it  for  me  ?  " 

Marie  raised  her  voice,  and  called  Miss  Ophelia  from  the 
other  room. 

The  child  half  rose  from  her  pillow  as  she  came  in,  and, 
shaking  down  her  long  golden-brown  curls,  said,  rather  play 
fully,  "  Come,  aunty,  shear  the  sheep !  " 

*'  What  's  that  ?  "  said  St.  Clare,  who  just  then  entered  with 
some  fruit  he  had  been  out  to  get  for  her. 

"  Papa,  I  just  want  aunty  to  cut  off  some  of  my  hair ;  — 
there  's  too  much  of  it,  and  it  makes  my  head  hot.  Besides,  I 
want  to  give  some  of  it  away." 

Miss  Ophelia  came,  with  her  scissors. 

"Take  care,  — don't  spoil  the  looks  of  it!  "  said  her  father; 
"  cut  underneath,  where  it  won't  show.  Eva's  curls  are  my 
pride." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  321 

"  Oh,  papa !  "  said  Eva,  sadly. 

"  Yes,  and  I  want  them  kept  handsome  against  the  time  I 
take  you  up  to  your  uncle's  plantation,  to  see  Cousin  Henrique," 
said  St.  Clare,  in  a  gay  tone. 

"  I  shall  never  go  there,  papa ;  —  I  am  going  to  a  better 
country.  Oh,  do  believe  me !  Don't  you  see,  papa,  that  I  get 
weaker,  every  day  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  insist  that  I  shall  believe  such  a  cruel  thing, 
Eva  ?  "  said  her  father. 

"  Only  because  it  is  true,  papa ;  and,  if  you  will  believe  it 
now,  perhaps  you  will  get  to  feel  about  it  as  I  do." 

St.  Clare  closed  his  lips,  and  stood  gloomily  eyeing  the  long, 
beautiful  curls,  which,  as  they  were  separated  from  the  child's 
head,  were  laid,  one  by  one,  in  her  lap.  She  raised  them  up, 
looked  earnestly  at  them,  twined  them  around  her  thin  fingers, 
and  looked,  from  time  to  time,  anxiously  at  her  father. 

"  It  's  just  what  I  've  been  foreboding !  "  said  Marie ;  "  it  'a 
just  what  has  been  preying  on  my  health,  from  day  to  day, 
bringing  me  downward  to  the  grave,  though  nobody  regards  it. 
I  have  seen  this  long.  St.  Clare,  you  will  see,  after  a  while, 
that  I  was  right." 

"  Which  will  afford  you  great  consolation,  no  doubt !  "  said 
St.  Clare,  in  a  dry,  bitter  tone. 

Marie  lay  back  on  a  lounge,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
cambric  handkerchief. 

Eva's  clear  blue  eye  looked  earnestly  from  one  to  the  other. 
It  was  the  calm,  comprehending  gaze  of  a  soul  half  loosed  from 
its  earthly  bonds ;  it  was  evident  she  saw,  felt,  and  appreciated 
the  difference  between  the  two. 

She  beckoned  with  her  hand  to  her  father.  He  came,  and 
sat  down  by  her. 

"  Papa,  my  strength  fades  away  every  day,  and  I  know  I 
must  go.  There  are  some  things  I  want  to  say  and  do,  —  that 
I  ought  to  do ;  and  you  are  so  unwilling  to  have  me  speak  a 
word  on  the  subject.  But  it  must  come  ;  there  's  no  putting  it 
off.  Do  be  willing  I  should  speak  now  !  " 

"  My  child,  I  am  willing  ! "   said  St.  Clare,  covering  his  eye? 
with  one  hand,  and  holding  up  Eva's  hand  with  the  other. 
21 


322  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

"  Then,  I  want  to  see  all  our  people  together.  I  have  some 
things  I  must  say  to  them,"  said  Eva. 

"  Well,"  said  St.  Clare,  in  a  tone  of  dry  endurance. 

Miss  Ophelia  dispatched  a  messenger,  and  soon  the  whole  of 
the  servants  were  convened  in  the  room. 

Eva  lay  back  on  her  pillows  ;  her  hair  hanging  loosely  about 
her  face,  her  crimson  cheeks  contrasting  painfully  with  the 
intense  whiteness  of  her  complexion  and  the  thin  contour  of 
her  limbs  and  features,  and  her  large,  soul-like  eyes  fixed  ear 
nestly  on  every  one. 

The  servants  were  struck  with  a  sudden  emotion.  The 
spiritual  face,  the  long  locks  of  hair  cut  off  and  lying  by  her, 
her  father's  averted  face,  and  Marie's  sobs,  struck  at  once  upon 
the  feelings  of  a  sensitive  and  impressible  race ;  and,  as  they 
came  in,  they  looked  one  on  another,  sighed,  and  shook  their 
heads.  There  was  a  deep  silence,  like  that  of  a  funeral. 

Eva  raised  herself,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  round  at 
every  one.  All  looked  sad  and  apprehensive.  Many  of  the 
women  hid  their  faces  in  their  aprons. 

"  I  sent  for  you  all,  my  dear  friends,"  said  Eva,  "  because  I 
love  you.  I  love  you  all ;  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you, 
which  I  want  you  always  to  remember.  ...  I  am  going  to 
leave  you.  In  a  few  more  weeks  you  will  see  me  no  more  "  — 

Here  the  child  was  interrupted  by  bursts  of  groans,  sobs,  and 
lamentations,  which  broke  from  all  present,  and  in  which  her 
slender  voice  was  lost  entirely.  She  waited  a  moment,  and 
then,  speaking  in  a  tone  that  checked  the  sobs  of  all,  she 
said,  — 

"  If  you  love  me  you  must  not  interrupt  me  so.  Listen  to 
what  I  say.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  your  souls.  .  .  . 
Many  of  you,  I  am  afraid,  are  very  careless.  You  are  thinking 
only  about  this  world.  I  want  you  to  remember  that  there  is 
a  beautiful  world  where  Jesus  is.  I  am  going  there,  and  you 
can  go  there.  It  is  for  you,  as  much  as  me.  But,  if  you  want 
to  go  there,  you  must  not  live  idle,  careless,  thoughtless  lives. 
You  must  be  Christians.  You  must  remember  that  each  one  of 
you  can  become  angels,  and  be  angels  forever.  ...  If  you 
want  to  be  Christians,  Jesus  will  help  you.  You  must  pray  to 
him  ;  you  must  read  "  — 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  323 

The  child  checked  herself,  looked  piteously  at  them,  and  said, 
sorrowfully,  — 

"  Oh,  dear !  you  can't  read,  —  poor  souls  !  "  and  she  hid  her 
face  in  the  pillow  and  sobbed,  while  many  a  smothered  sob 
from  those  she  was  addressing,  who  were  kneeling  on  the  floor, 
aroused  her. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said,  raising  her  face,  and  smiling  brightly 
through  her  tears,  "  I  have  prayed  for  you ;  and  I  know  Jesus 
will  help  you,  even  if  you  can't  read.  Try  all  to  do  the  best 
you  can ;  pray  every  day ;  ask  him  to  help  you,  and  get  the 
Bible  read  to  you  whenever  you  can ;  and  I  think  I  shall  see 
you  all  in  heaven." 

"  Amen,"  was  the  murmured  response  from  the  lips  of  Tom 
and  Mammy,  and  some  of  the  elder  ones,  who  belonged  to  the 
Methodist  Church.  The  younger  and  more  thoughtless  ones, 
for  the  time  completely  overcome,  were  sobbing,  with  their 
heads  bowed  upon  their  knees. 

"  I  know,"  said  Eva,  "you  all  love  me." 

"  Yes ;  oh,  yes  !  indeed  we  do  !  Lord  bless  her !  "  was  the 
involuntary  answer  of  all. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  do  I  There  is  n't  one  of  you  that  has  n't 
always  been  very  kind  to  me  ;  and  I  want  to  give  you  some- 
tiling  that,  when  you  look  at,  you  shall  always  remember  me. 
I  'm  going  to  give  all  of  you  a  curl  of  my  hair  ;  and,  when  you 
look  at  it,  think  that  I  loved  you  and  am  gone  to  heaven,  and 
that  I  want  to  see  you  all  there." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  scene,  as,  with  tears  and  sobs, 
they  gathered  round  the  little  creature,  and  took  from  her  hands 
what  seemed  to  them  a  last  mark  of  her  love.  They  fell  on 
their  knees  ;  they  sobbed,  and  prayed,  and  kissed  the  hem  of 
her  garment ;  and  the  elder  ones  poured  forth  words  of  endear 
ment,  mingled  in  prayers  and  blessings,  after  the  manner  of 
their  susceptible  race. 

As  each  one  took  their  gift,  Miss  Ophelia,  who  was  appre 
hensive  for  the  effect  of  all  this  excitement  on  her  little  patient, 
signed  to  each  one  to  pass  out  of  the  apartment. 

At  last,  all  were  gone  but  Tom  and  Mammy. 

"Here,  Uncle  Tom,"  said  Eva,  "is  a  beautiful  one  for  you. 
Oh,  I  am  so  happy.  Uncle  Tom,  to  think  I  shall  see  you  k 


324  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

heaven,  —  for  I'm  sure  I  shall;  and  Mammy,  —  dear,  good, 
kind  Mammy !  "  she  said,  fondly  throwing  her  arms  round  her 
old  nurse,  —  "I  know  you  '11  be  there,  too." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Eva,  don't  see  how  I  can  live  without  ye,  no 
how !  "  said  the  faithful  creature.  "  'Pears  like  it 's  just  taking 
everything  off  the  place  to  oncet !  "  and  Mammy  gave  way  to  a 
passion  of  grief. 

Miss  Ophelia  pushed  her  and  Tom  gently  from  the  apartment, 
and  thought  they  were  all  gone  ;  but,  as  she  turned,  Topsy  was 
standing  there. 

"  Where  did  you  start  up  from  ?  "  she  said,  suddenly. 

"  I  was  here,"  said  Topsy,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 
"  Oh,  Miss  Eva,  I  've  been  a  bad  girl ;  but  won't  you  give  me 
one,  too  ? " 

"  Yes,  poor  Topsy  !  to  be  sure  I  will.  There  —  every  time 
you  look  at  that,  think  that  I  love  you,  and  wanted  you  to  be  a 
good  girl !  " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Eva.  I  is  tryin' !  "  said  Topsy,  earnestly ;  "  but, 
Lor,  it 's  so  hard  to  be  good  !  Tears  like  I  an't  used  to  it,  no 
ways !  " 

"Jesus  knows  it,  Topsy;  he  is  sorry  for  you;  he  will  help 
you." 

Topsy,  with  her  eyes  hid  in  her  apron,  was  silently  passed 
from  the  apartment  by  Miss  Ophelia ;  but,  as  she  went,  she  hid 
the  precious  curl  in  her  bosom. 

All  being  gone.  Miss  Ophelia  shut  the  door.  That  worthy 
lady  had  wiped  away  many  tears  of  her  own,  during  the  scene  ; 
but  concern  for  the  consequence  of  such  an  excitement  to  her 
young  charge  was  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

St.  Clare  had  been  sitting,  during  the  whole  time,  with  his 
hand  shading  his  eyes,  ir  the  same  attitude.  When  they  were 
all  gone,  he  sat  so  still. 

"  Papa !  "  said  Eva,  gently,  laying  her  hand  on  his. 

He  gave  a  sudden  start  and  shiver ;  but  made  no  answer. 

"  Dear  papa !  "  said  Eva. 

"  I  cannot"  said  St.  Clare,  rising,  "  I  cannot  have  it  so ! 
The  Almighty  hath  dealt  very  bitterly  with  me  !  "  and  St.  Clare 
pronounced  these  words  with  a  bitter  emphasis,  indeed. 

"  Augustine  !  has  not  God  a  right  to  do  what  he  will  with  his 
own  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 


LIFE   AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  325 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  that  does  n't  make  it  any  easier  to  bear," 
said  he,  with  a  dry,  hard,  tearless  manner,  as  he  turned  away. 

"  Papa,  you  break  my  heart ! f'  said  Eva,  rising  and  throwing 
herself  into  his  arms ;  "  you  must  not  feel  so  !  "  and  the  child 
sobbed  and  wept  with  a  violence  which  alarmed  them  all,  and 
turned  her  father's  thoughts  at  once  to  another  channel. 

"  There,  Eva,  —  there,  dearest !  Hush  !  hush  !  I  was  wrong ; 
I  was  wicked.  I  will  feel  any  way,  do  any  way,  —  only  don't 
distress  yourself ;  don't  sob  so.  I  will  be  resigned ;  I  was 
wicked  to  speak  as  I  did." 

Eva  soon  lay  like  a  wearied  clove  in  her  father's  arms  ;  and 
he,  bending  over  her,  soothed  her  by  every  tender  word  he 
could  think  of. 

Marie  rose  and  threw  herself  out  of  the  apartment  into  her 
own,  when  she  fell  into  violent  hysterics. 

"  You  did  n't  give  me  a  curl,  Eva,"  said  her  father,  smiling 
sadly. 

"  They  are  all  yours,  papa,"  said  she,  smiling,  —  "  yours  and 
mamma's ;  and  you  must  give  dear  aunty  as  many  as  she 
wants.  I  only  gave  them  to  our  poor  people  myself,  because 
you  know,  papa,  they  might  be  forgotten  when  I  am  gone,  and 
because  I  hoped  it  might  help  them  remember.  .  .  .  You  are  a 
Christian,  are  you  not,  papa  ?  "  said  Eva,  doubtfully. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  are  so  good,  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
help  it" 

"  What  is  being  a  Christian,  Eva  ?  " 

"  Loving  Christ  most  of  all,"  said  Eva. 

"  Do  you,  Eva  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  do." 

"  You  never  saw  him,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"  That  makes  no  difference,"  said  Eva.  "I  believe  him,  and 
m  a  few  days  I  shall  see  him  ;  "  and  the  young  face  grew  fer 
vent,  radiant  with  joy. 

St.  Clare  said  no  more.  It  was  a  feeling  which  he  had  seen 
before  in  his  mother ;  but  no  chord  within  vibrated  to  it. 

Eva,  after  this,  declined  rapidly ;  there  was  no  more  any 
doubt  of  the  event ;  the  fondest  hope  could  not  be  blinded.  Her 
beautiful  room  was  avowedly  a  sick  room,  and  Miss  Ophelia  day 


326  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

and  night  performed  the  duties  of  a  nurse,  —  and  never  did 
her  friends  appreciate  her  value  more  than  in  that  capacity. 
With  so  well-trained  a  hand  a*nd  eye,  such  perfect  adroitness 
and  practice  in  every  art  which  could  promote  neatness  and 
comfort,  and  keep  out  of  sight  every  disagreeable  incident  of 
sickness,  —  with  such  a  perfect  sense  of  time,  such  a  clear, 
untroubled  head,  such  exact  accuracy  in  remembering  every 
prescription  and  direction  of  the  doctor's,  —  she  was  everything 
to  him.  They  who  had  shrugged  their  shoulders  at  her  little 
peculiarities  and  setnesses,  so  unlike  the  careless  freedom  of 
southern  manners,  acknowledged  that  now  she  was  the  exact 
person  that  was  wanted. 

Uncle  Tom  was  much  in  Eva's  room.  The  child  suffered 
much  from  nervous  restlessness,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to  be 
carried  ;  and  it  was  Tom's  greatest  delight  to  carry  her  little 
frail  form  in  his  arms,  resting  on  a  pillow,  now  up  and  down 
her  room,  now  out  into  the  veranda  ;  and  when  the  fresh  sea- 
breezes  blew  from  the  lake,  —  and  the  child  felt  freshest  in  the 
morning,  —  he  would  sometimes  walk  with  her  under  the 
orange-trees  in  the  garden,  or,  sitting  down  in  some  of  their  old 
seats,  sing  to  her  their  favorite  old  hymns. 

Her  father  often  did  the  same  thing;  but  his  frame  was 
slighter,  and  when  ho  was  weary,  Eva  would  say  to  him,  — 

"  Oh,  papa,  let  Tom  take  me.  Poor  fellow  !  it  pleases  him, 
and  you  know  it 's  all  he  can  do  now,  and  he  wants  to  do  some 
thing!" 

"  So  do  I,  Eva !  "  said  her  father. 

"  Well,  papa,  you  can  do  everything,  and  are  everything  to 
me.  You  read  to  me,  —  you  sit  up  nights,  —  and  Tom  has 
only  this  one  thing,  and  his  singing ;  and  I  know,  too,  he  does 
it  easier  than  you  can.  He  carries  me  so  strong !  " 

The  desire  to  do  something  was  not  confined  to  Tom.  Every 
servant  in  the  establishment  showed  the  same  feeling,  and  in 
their  way  did  what  they  could. 

Poor  Mammy's  heart  yearned  towards  her  darling ;  but  she 
found  no  opportunity, .  night  or  day,  as  Marie  declared  that  the 
state  of  her  mind  was  such,  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  rest ; 
and,  of  course,  it  was  against  her  principles  to  let  any  one  else 
rest.  Twenty  times  in  a  night,  Mammy  would  be  roused  to  rub 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  327 

her  feet,  to  bathe  her  head,  to  find  her  pocket-handkerchief,  to 
see  what  the  noise  was  in  Eva's  room,  to  let  down  a  curtain  be 
cause  it  was  too  light,  or  to  put  it  up  because  it  was  too  dark ; 
and,  in  the  daytime,  when  she  longed  to  have  some  share  in  the 
nursing  of  her  pet,  Marie  seemed  unusually  ingenious  in  keep 
ing  her  busy  anywhere  and  everywhere  all  over  the  house,  or 
about  her  own  person ;  so  that  stolen  interviews  and  momentary 
glimpses  were  all  she  could  obtain. 

"  I  feel  it  rny  duty  to  be  particularly  careful  of  myself,  now," 
she  would  say,  ''  feeble  as  I  am,  and  with  the  whole  care  and 
nursing  of  that  dear  child  upon  me." 

"  Indeed,  my  dear,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  I  thought  our  cousin  re 
lieved  you  of  that." 

"  You  talk  like  a  man,  St.  Clare,  —  just  as  if  a  mother  could 
be  relieved  of  the  care  of  a  child  in  that  state ;  but,  then,  it 's 
all  alike,  —  no  one  ever  knows  what  I  feel !  I  can't  throw 
things  off,  as  you  do." 

St.  Clare  smiled.  You  must  excuse  him,  he  could  n't  help  it, 
—  for  St.  Clare  could  smile  yet.  For  so  bright  and  placid  was 
the  farewell  voyage  of  the  little  spirit,  —  by  such  sweet  and 
fragrant  breezes  was  the  small  bark  borne  towards  the  heavenly 
shores,  —  that  it  was  impossible  to  realize  that  it  was  death  that 
was  approaching.  The  child  felt  no  pain,  —  only  a  tranquil, 
soft  weakness,  daily  and  almost  insensibly  increasing ;  and  she 
was  so  beautiful,  so  loving,  so  trustful,  so  happy,  that  one  could 
not  resist  the  soothing  influence  of  that  air  of  innocence  and 
peace  which  seemed  to  breathe  around  her.  St.  Clare  found  a 
strange  calm  coming  over  him.  It  was  not  hope,  —  that  was 
impossible ;  it  was  not  resignation ;  it  was  only  a  calm  resting 
in  the  present,  which  seemed  so  beautiful  that  he  wished  to 
think  of  no  future.  It  was  like  that  hush  of  spirit  which  we  feel 
amid  the  bright,  mild  woods  of  autumn,  when  the  bright  hectic 
flush  is  on  the  trees,  and  the  last  lingering  flowers  by  the  brook ; 
and  we  joy  in  it  all  the  more,  because  we  know  that  soon  it  will 
all  pass  away. 

The  friend  who  knew  most  of  Eva's  own  imaginings  and  fore- 
shadowings  was  her  faithful  bearer,  Tom.  To  him  she  said  what 
she  would  not  disturb  her  father  by  saying.  To  him  she  im 
parted  those  mysterious  intimations  which  the  soul  feels,  as  the 
cords  begin  to  unbind,  ere  it  leaves  its  clay  forever. 


328  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB, 

Tom,  at  last,  would  not  sleep  in  his  room,  but  lay  all  night  in 
the  outer  veranda,  ready  to  rouse  at  every  call. 

"  Uncle  Tom,  what  alive  have  you  taken  to  sleeping  anywhere 
and  everywhere,  like  a  dog,  for  ? "  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  I 
thought  you  was  one  of  the  orderly  sort,  that  liked  to  lie  in  bed 
in  a  Christian  way." 

"  I  do,  Miss  Feely,"  said  Tom,  mysteriously.  "  I  do,  but 
now  "  — 

"  Well,  what  now  ?  " 

"  We  must  n't  speak  loud  ;  Mas'r  St.  Clare  won't  hear  on  't ; 
but,  Miss  Feely,  you  know  there  must  be  somebody  watchin'  for 
the  bridegroom." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Tom  ?  " 

"  You  know  it  says  in  Scripture,  '  At  midnight  there  was  a 
great  cry  made,  Behold,  the  bridegroom  cometh.'  That 's  what 
I  'm  'spectin'  now,  every  night,  Miss  Feely,  —  and  I  could  n't 
sleep  out  o'  hearin',  no  ways." 

"  Why,  Uncle  Tom,  what  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Miss  Eva,  she  talks  to  me.  The  Lord,  he  sends  his  messen 
ger  in  the  soul.  I  must  be  thar,  Miss  Feely  ;  for  when  that  ar 
blessed  child  goes  into  the  kingdom,  they  11  open  the  door  so 
wide,  we  '11  all  get  a  look  in  at  the  glory,  Miss  Feely." 

"  Uncle  Tom,  did  Miss  Eva  say  she  felt  more  unwell  than 
usual  to-night  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  she  telled  me,  this  morning,  she  was  coming  nearer, 
—  thar 's  them  that  tells  it  to  the  child,  Miss  Feely.  It 's  the 
angels,  —  *  it 's  the  trumpet  sound  afore  the  break  o'  day,'  "  said 
Tom,  quoting  from  a  favorite  hymn. 

This  dialogue  passed  between  Miss  Ophelia  and  Tom,  between 
ten  and  eleven,  one  evening,  after  her  arrangements  had  all  been 
made  for  the  night,  when,  on  going  to  bolt  her  outer  door,  she 
found  Tom  stretched  along  by  it,  in  the  outer  veranda. 

She  was  not  nervous  or  impressible ;  but  the  solemn,  heart 
felt  manner  struck  her.  Eva  had  been  unusually  bright  and 
cheerful,  that  afternoon,  and  had  sat  raised  in  her  bed,  and 
looked  over  all  her  little  trinkets  and  precious  things,  and  des 
ignated  the  friends  to  whom  she  would  have  them  given ;  and 
her  manner  was  more  animated,  and  her  voice  more  natural, 
than  they  had  known  it  for  weeks.  Her  father  had  been  in,  in 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  329 

the  evening,  and  had  said  that  Eva  appeared  more  like  her 
former  self  than  ever  she  had  done  since  her  sickness  ;  and  when 
he  kissed  her  for  the  night,  he  said  to  Miss  Ophelia,  —  "  Cousin, 
we  may  keep  her  with  us,  after  all ;  she  is  certainly  better  ;  " 
and  he  had  retired  with  a  lighter  heart  in  his  bosom  than  he  had 
had  for  weeks. 

But  at  midnight, — strange,  mystic  hour!  —  when  the  veil 
between  the  frail  present  and  the  eternal  future  grows  thin,  — 
then  came  the  messenger  ! 

There  was  a  sound  in  that  chamber,  first  of  one  who  stepped 
quickly.  It  was  Miss  Ophelia,  who  had  resolved  to  sit  up  all 
night  with  her  little  charge,  and  who,  at  the  turn  of  the  night, 
had  discerned  what  experienced  nurses  significantly  call  "  a 
change."  The  outer  door  was  quickly  opened,  and  Tom,  who 
was  watching  outside,  was  on  the  alert,  in  a  moment. 

"  Go  for  the  doctor,  Tom !  lose  not  a  moment,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia ;  and,  stepping  across  the  room,  she  rapped  at  St.  Clare's 
door. 

u  Cousin,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  you  would  come." 

Those  words  fell  on  his  heart  like  clods  upon  a  coffin.  Why 
did  they  ?  He  was  up  and  in  the  room  in  an  instant,  and  bend 
ing  over  Eva,  who  still  slept. 

What  was  it  he  saw  that  made  his  heart  stand  still  ?  Why 
was  no  word  spoken  between  the  two  ?  Thou  canst  say,  who 
hast  seen  that  same  expression  on  the  face  dearest  to  thee ;  — 
that  look  indescribable,  hopeless,  unmistakable,  that  says  to  thee 
that  thy  beloved  is  no  longer  thine. 

On  the  face  of  the  child,  however,  there  was  no  ghastly  im 
print,  —  only  a  high  and  almost  sublime  expression,  —  the  over 
shadowing  presence  of  spiritual  natures,  the  dawning  of  immor 
tal  life  in  that  childish  soul. 

They  stood  there  so  still,  gazing  upon  her,  that  even  the  tick 
ing  of  the  watch  seemed  too  loud.  In  a  few  moments  Tom  re 
turned,  with  the  doctor.  He  entered,  gave  one  look,  and  stood 
silent  as  the  rest. 

"  When  did  this  change  take  place  ?  "  said  he,  in  a  low  whis 
per,  to  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  About  the  turn  of  the  night,"  was  the  reply. 

Marie,  roused  by  the  entrance  of  the  doctor,  appeared,  hur 
riedly,  from  the  next  room. 


330  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB, 

"  Augustine  !  Cousin  \  —  Oh !  —  what !  "  she  hurriedly  began. 

"  Hush  ! ."  said  St.  Clare,  hoarsely  ;  "  she  is  dying  !  " 

Mammy  heard  the  words,  and  flew  to  awaken  the  servants. 

The  house  was  soon  aroused,  —  lights  were  seen,  footsteps  heard, 

anxious    faces    thronged    the    veranda,    and   looking   tearfully 

through  the  glass  doors  ;  but  St.  Clare  heard  and  said  nothing, 

—  he  saw  only  that  look  on  the  face  of  the  little  sleeper. 
"Oh,  if  she  would  only  wake,  and  speak  once   more!  "  he 

said  ;  and,  stooping  over  her,  he  spoke  in  her  ear,  —  "  Eva, 
darling !  " 

The  large  blue  eyes  unclosed,  —  a  smile  passed  over  her  face  ; 

—  she  tried  to  raise  her  head,  and  to  speak. 
"  Do  you  know  me,  Eva  ?  " 

,  "  Dear  papa,"  said  the  child,  with  a  last  effort,  throwing  her 
arms  about  his  neck.  In  a  moment  they  dropped  again,  and,  as 
St.  Clare  raised  his  head,  he  saw  a  spasm  of  mortal  agony  pass 
over  the  face,  —  she  struggled  for  breath,  and  threw  up  her  little 
hands. 

"  O  God,  this  is  dreadful !  "  he  said,  turning  away  in  agony, 
and  wringing  Tom's  hand,  .scarce  conscious  what  he  was  doing. 
"  Oh,  Tom,  my  boy,  it  is  killing  me  !  " 

Tom  had  his  master's  hands  between  his  own  ;  and,  with  tears 
streaming  down  his  dark  cheeks,  looked  up  for  help  where  he 
had  always  been  used  to  look. 

"  Pray  that  this  may  be  cut  short  I  "  said  St.  Clare,  —  "  this 
wrings  my  heart." 

"  Oh,  bless  the  Lord  !  it 's  over,  —  it 's  over,  dear  Master !  " 
said  Tom  ;  "  look  at  her." 

The  child  lay  panting  on  her  pillows,  as  one  exhausted,  — 
the  large  clear  eyes  rolled  up  and  fixed.  And,  what  said  those 
eyes,  that  spoke  so  much  of  heaven  ?  Earth  was  past,  and 
earthly  pain ;  but  so  solemn,  so  mysterious,  was  the  triumphant 
brightness  of  that  face,  that  it  choked  even  the  sobs  of  sorrow. 
They  pressed  around  her,  in  breathless  stillness. 

"Eva,"  said  St.  Clare,  gently. 

She  did  not  hear. 

"  Oh,  Eva,  tell  us  what  you  see  J  What  is  it  ?  "  said  her 
father. 

A  bright,  a  glorious  smile  passed  over  her  face,  and  she  said, 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  331 

brokenly,  —  "  Oh  !  love,  —  joy,  — peace  !  "  gave  one  sigh,  and 
passed  from  death  unto  life  ! 

"Farewell,  beloved  child!  the  bright,  eternal  doors  have 
closed  after  thee ;  we  shall  see  thy  sweet  face  no  more.  Oh, 
woe  for  them  who  watched  thy  entrance  into  heaven,  when  they 
shall  wake  and  find  only  the  cold  gray  sky  of  daily  life,  and 
thou  gone  forever !  " 


332  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OB. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"THIS   IS    THE   LAST    OF   EARTH." 

John  Q.  Adams. 

THE  statuettes  and  pictures  in  Eva's  room  were  shrouded  in 
tvhite  napkins,  and  only  hushed  breathings  and  muffled  footfalls 
were  heard  there,  and  the  light  stole  in  solemnly  through  win 
dows  partially  darkened  by  closed  blinds. 

The  bed  was  draped  in  white  ;  and  there,  beneath  the  droop 
ing  angel  figure,  lay  a  little  sleeping  form,  —  sleeping  never  to 
waken ! 

There  she  lay,  robed  in  one  of  the  simple  white  dresses  she 
had  been  wont  to  wear  when  living ;  the  rose  -  colored  light 
through  the  curtains  cast  over  the  icy  coldness  of  death  a  warm 
glow.  The  heavy  eyelashes  drooped  softly  on  the  pure  cheek ; 
the  head  was  turned  a  little  to  one  side,  as  if  in  natural  sleep, 
but  there  was  diffused  over  every  lineament  of  the  face  that  high 
celestial  expression,  that  mingling  of  rapture  and  repose,  which 
showed  it  was  no  earthly  or  temporary  sleep,  but  the  long,  sa 
cred  rest  which  "  He  giveth  to  his  beloved." 

There  is  no  death  to  such  as  thou,  dear  Eva !  neither  dark 
ness  nor  shadow  of  death  ;  only  such  a  bright  fading  as  when 
the  morning  star  fades  in  the  golden  dawn.  Thine  is  the  vic 
tory  without  the  battle,  —  the  crown  without  the  conflict. 

So  did  St.  Clare  think,  as,  with  folded  arms,  he  stood  there 
gazing.  Ah  !  who  shall  say  what  he  did  think  ?  for,  from  the 
hour  that  voices  had  said,  in  the  dying  chamber,  "  She  is  gone," 
it  had  been  all  a  dreary  mist,  a  heavy  "  dimness  of  anguish." 
He  had  heard  voices  around  him,  he  had  had  questions  asked, 
and  answered  them ;  they  had  asked  him  when  he  would  have 
the  funeral,  and  where  they  should  lay  her ;  and  he  had  an 
swered,  impatiently,  that  he  cared  not. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  383 

Adolph  and  Rosa  had  arranged  the  chamber ;  volatile,  fickle, 
and  childish,  as  they  generally  were,  they  were  soft-hearted  and 
full  of  feeling ;  and,  while  Miss  Ophelia  presided  over  the  gen 
eral  details  of  order  and  neatness,  it  was  their  hands  that  added 
those  soft,  poetic  touches  to  the  arrangements,  that  took  from 
the  death-room  the  grim  and  ghastly  air  which  too  often  marks 
a  New  England  funeral. 

There  were  still  flowers  on  the  shelves,  —  all  white,  delicate, 
and  fragrant,  with  graceful,  drooping  leaves.  Eva's  little  table, 
covered  with  white,  bore  on  it  her  favorite  vase,  with  a  single 
white  moss  rosebud  in  it.  The  folds  of  the  drapery,  the  fall  of 
the  curtains,  had  been  arranged  and  rearranged,  by  Adolph  and 
Rosa,  with  that  nicety  of  ey$  which  characterizes  their  race. 
Even  now,  while  St.  Clare  stood  thei?  thinking,  little  Rosa 
tripped  softly  into  the  chamber  with  a  basket  of  white  flowers. 
She  stepped  back  when  she  saw  St.  Clare,  and  stopped  respect 
fully  ;  but,  seeing  that  he  did  not  observe  her,  she  came  for 
ward  to  place  them  around  the  dead.  St.  Clare  saw  her  as  in 
a  dream,  while  she  placed  in  the  small  hands  a  fair  cape  jessa 
mine,  and,  with  admirable  taste,  disposed  other  flowers  around 
the  couch. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  Topsy,  her  eyes  swelled  with 
crying,  appeared,  holding  something  under  her  apron.  Rosa 
made  a  quick,  forbidding  gesture  ;  but  she  took  a  step  into  the 
room, 

"You  must  go  out,"  said  Rosa,  in  a  sharp,  positive  whisper ; 
"  you  have  n't  any  business  here !  " 

"  Oh,  do  let  me  !  I  brought  a  flower,  —  such  a  pretty  one  !  " 
said  Topsy,  holding  up  a  half-blown  tea  rosebud.  "  Do  let  me 
put  just  one  there." 

"  Get  along,"  said  Rosa,  more  decidedly. 

"  Let  her  stay !  "  said  St.  Clare,  suddenly  stamping  his  foot. 
"  She  shall  come." 

Rosa  suddenly  retreated,  and  Topsy  came  forward  and  laid 
her  offering  at  the  feet  of  the  corpse  ;  then  suddenly,  with  a 
wild  and  bitter  cry,  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor  alongside  the 
bed,  and  wept,  and  moaned  aloud. 

Miss  Ophelia  hastened  into  the  room,  and  tried  to  raise  and 
silence  her ;  but  in  vain. 


334  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  Oh,  Miss  Eva  !  Oh,  Miss  Eva  !  I  wish  I 's  dead,  too,  — 
I  do  !  " 

There  was  a  piercing  wildness  in  the  cry ;  the  blood  flushed 
into  St.  Clare's  white,  marble-like  face,  and  the  first  tears  he 
had  shed  since  Eva  died  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"  Get  up,  child,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  in  a  softened  voice  ; 
"  don't  cry  so.  Miss  Eva  is  gone  to  heaven  ;  she  is- an  angel." 

"  But  I  can't  see  her !  "  said  Topsy.  "  I  never  shall  see  her !  " 
and  she  sobbed  again. 

They  all  stood  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  She  said  she  loved  me,"  said  Topsy,  —  "  she  did !  Oh, 
dear  !  Oh,  dea.r  !  there  an't  nobody  left  now,  —  there  an't !  " 

"  That 's  true  enough,"  said  St.  Clare  ;  but  do,"  he  said  to 
Miss  Ophelia,  "  see  if  you  can't  comfort  the  poor  creature." 

"  I  jist  wish  I  had  n't  never  been  born,"  said  Topsy.  "  I 
did  n't  want  to  be  born,  no  ways  ;  and  I  don't  see  no  use  on  't." 

Miss  Ophelia  raised  her  gently,  but  firmly,  and  took  her 
from  the  room ;  but,  as  she  did  so,  some  tears  fell  from  her 
eyes. 

"  Topsy,  you  poor  child,"  she  said,  as  she  led  her  into  her 
room,  "  don't  give  up  !  I  can  love  you,  though  I  am  not  like 
that  dear  little  child.  I  hope  I  've  learnt  something  of  the  love 
of  Christ  from  her.  I  can  love  you  ;  I  do,  and  I  '11  try  to  help 
you  to  grow  up  a  good  Christian  girl." 

Miss  Ophelia's  voice  was  more  than  her  words,  and  more 
than  that  were  the  honest  tears  that  fell  down  her  face.  From 
that  hour,  she  acquired  an  influence  over  the  mind  of  the  desti 
tute  child  that  she  never  lost. 

"  Oh,  my  Eva,  whose  little  hour  on  earth  did  so  much  of 
good,"  thought  St.  Clare,  "  what  account  have  I  to  give  for  my 
long  years  ?  " 

There  were,  for  a  while,  soft  whisperings  and  footfalls  in  the 
chamber,  as  one  after  another  stole  in,  to  look  at  the  dead ;  and 
then  came  the  little  coffin  ;  and  then  there  was  a  funeral,  and 
carriages  drove  to  the  door,  and  strangers  came  and  were 
seated  ;  and  there  were  white  scarfs  and  ribbons,  and  crape 
bands,  and  mourners  dressed  in  black  crape  ;  and  there  were 
words  read  from  the  Bible,  and  prayers  offered  ;  and  St.  Clare 
lived,  and  walked,  and  moved,  as  one  who  has  shed  every  tear; 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  335 

to  the  last  he  saw  only  one  thing,  that  golden  head  in  the  coffin  ; 
but  then  he  saw  the  cloth  spread  over  it,  the  lid  of  the  coffin 
closed  ;  and  he  walked,  when  he  was  put  beside  the  others, 
down  to  a  little  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  and  there,  by 
the  mossy  seat  where  she  and  Tom  had  talked,  and  sung,  and 
read  so  often,  was  the  little  grave.  St.  Clare  stood  beside  it,  — 
looked  vacantly  down  ;  he  saw  them  lower  the  little  eoffin  ;  he 
heard,  dimly,  the  solemn  words,  u  I  am  the  Resurrection  and 
the  Life  ;  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet 
shall  he  live  ;  "  and,  as  the  earth  was  cast  in  and  filled  up  the 
little  grave,  he  could  not  realize  that  it  was  his  Eva  that  they 
were  hiding  from  his  sight. 

Nor  was  it !  —  not  Eva,  but  only  the  frail  seed  of  that  bright, 
immortal  form  with  which  she  shall  yet  come  forth,  in  the  day 
of  the  Lord  Jesus  ! 

And  then  all  were  gone,  and  the  mourners  went  back  to  the 
place  which  should  know  her  no  more  ;  and  Marie's  room  was 
darkened,  and  she  lay  on  the  bed,  sobbing  and  moaning  in  un 
controllable  grief,  and  calling  every  moment  for  the  attentions 
of  all  her  servants.  Of  course,  they  had  no  time  to  cry,  —  why 
should  they?  the  grief  was  her  grief,  and  she  was  fully  con 
vinced  that  nobody  on  earth  did,  could,  or  would  feel  it  as  she 
did. 

"  St.  Clare  did  not  shed  a  tear,"  she  said ;  "  he  did  n't  sym 
pathize  with  her  ;  it  was  perfectly  wonderful  to  think  how  hard 
hearted  and  unfeeling  he  was,  when  he  must  know  how  she  suf 
fered." 

So  much  are  people  the  slave  of  their  eye  and  ear,  that  many 
of  the  servants  really  thought  that  Missis  was  the  principal  suf 
ferer  in  the  case,  especially  as  Marie  began  to  have  hysterical 
spasms,  and  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  at  last  declared  herself  dy 
ing  ;  and,  in  the  running  and  scampering,  and  bringing  up  hot 
bottles,  and  heating  of  flannels,  and  chafing,  and  fussing,  that 
ensued,  there  was  quite  a  diversion. 

Tom,  however,  had  a  feeling  at  his  own  heart,  that  drew  him 
to  his  master.  He  followed  him  wherever  he  walked,  wistfully 
and  sadly ;  and  when  he  saw  him  sitting,  so  pale  and  quiet,  in 
Eva's  room,  holding  before  his  eyes  her  little  open  Bible,  though 
seeing  no  letter  or  word  of  what  was  in  it,  there  was  more  sor- 


336  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

row  to  Tom  in  that  still,  fixed,  tearless  eye,  than  in  all  Marie's 
moans  and  lamentations. 

In  a  few  days  the  St.  Clare  family  were  back  again  in  the 
city ;  Augustine,  with  the  restlessness  of  grief,  longing  for  an 
other  scene,  to  change  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  So  they 
left  the  house  and  garden,  with  its  little  grave,  and  came  back 
to  New  Orleans ;  and  St.  Clare  walked  the  streets  busily,  and 
strove  to  fill  up  the  chasm  in  his  heart  with  hurry  and  bustle, 
and  change  of  place ;  and  people  who  saw  him  in  the  street,  or 
met  him  at  the  cafe,  knew  of  his  loss  only  by  the  weed  on  his 
hat;  for  there  he  was,  smiling  and  talking,  and  reading  the 
newspaper,  and  speculating  on  politics,  and  attending  to  busi 
ness  matters ;  and  who  could  see  that  all  this  smiling  outside 
was  but  a  hollow  shell  over  a  heart  that  was  a  dark  and  silent 
sepulchre  ? 

"  Mr.  St.  Clare  is  a  singular  man,"  said  Marie  to  Miss  Ophe 
lia,  in  a  complaining  tone.  "  I  used  to  think,  if  there  was  any 
thing  in  the  world  he  did  love,  it  was  our  dear  little  Eva ;  but 
he  seems  to  be  forgetting  her  very  easily.  I  cannot  ever  get 
him  to  talk  about  her.  I  really  did  think  he  would  show  more 
feeling !  " 

"  Still  waters  run  deepest,  they  used  to  tell  me,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  oracularly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  in  such  things  ;  it 's  all  talk.  If  people 
have  feeling,  they  will  show  it,  —  they  can't  help  it ;  but,  then, 
it 's  a  great  misfortune  to  have  feeling.  I  'd  rather  have  been 
made  like  St.  Clare.  My  feelings  prey  upon  me  so !  " 

"Sure,  Missis,  Mas'r  St.  Clare  is  gettin'  thin  as  a  shader. 
They  say,  he  don't  ever  eat  nothin',"  said  Mammy.  "  I  know 
he  don't  forget  Miss  Eva  ;  I  know  there  could  n't  nobody,  — 
dear,  little,  blessed  cretur  !  "  she  added,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  he  has  no  consideration  for  me,"  said 
Marie ;  "  he  has  n't  spoken  one  word  of  sympathy,  and  he  must 
know  how  much  more  a  mother  feels  than  any  man  can." 

"The  heart  kiioweth  its  own  bitterness,"  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
gravely. 

"  That 's  just  what  I  think.  I  know  just  what  I  feel,  — 
nobody  else  seems  to.  Eva  used  to,  but  she  is  gone !  "  and 
Marie  lay  back  on  her  lounge,  and  began  to  sob  disconsolately. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  337 

Marie  was  one  of  those  unfortunately  constituted  mortals,  in 
whose  eyes  whatever  is  lost  and  gone  assumes  a  value  which 
it  never  had  in  possession.  Whatever  she  had,  she  seemed  to 
survey  only  to  pick  flaws  in  it;  but,  once  fairly  away,  there 
was  no  end  to  her  valuation  of  it. 

While  this  conversation  was  taking  place  in  the  parlor,  an 
other  was  going  on  in  St.  Clare's  library. 

Tom,  who  was  always  uneasily  following  his  master  about, 
had  seen  him  go  to  his  library,  some  hours  before ;  and,  after 
vainly  waiting  for  him  to  come  out,  determined,  at  last,  to  make 
an  errand  in.  He  entered  softly.'  St.  Clare  lay  on  his  lounge, 
at  the  further  end  of  the  room.  He  was  lying  on  his  face,  with 
Eva's  Bible  open  before  him,  at  a  little  distance.  Tom  walked 
up,  and  stood  by  the  sofa.  He  hesitated ;  and,  while  he  was 
hesitating,  St.  Clare  suddenly  raised  himself  up.  The  honest 
face,  so  full  of  grief,  and  with  such  an  imploring  expression  of 
affection  and  sympathy,  struck  his  master.  He  laid  his  hand 
on  Tom's,  and  bowed  down  his  forehead  on  it. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  my  boy,  the  whole  world  is  as  empty  as  an  egg 
shell." 

"I  know  it,  Mas'r,  —  I  know  it,"  said  Tom;  "but,  oh,  if 
Mas'r  could  only  look  up,  —  up  where  our  dear  Miss  Eva  is,  — 
up  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  !  " 

"Ah,  Tom !  I  do  look  up ;  but  the  trouble  is,  I  don't  see 
anything,  when  I  do.  I  wish  I  could." 

Tom  sighed  heavily. 

"  It  seems  to  be  given  to  children,  and  poor,  honest  fellows, 
like  you,  to  see  what  we  can't,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  How  comes 
it?" 

"Thou  hast  'hid  from  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  revealed 
unto  babes,'  "  murmured  Tom  ;  "  '  even  so,  Father,  for  so  it 
seemed  good  in  thy  sight.'  " 

"  Tom,  I  don't  believe,  —  I  can't  believe,  —  I  've  got  the 
habit  of  doubting,"  said  St.  Clare.  "I  want  to  believe  this 
Bible,  —  and  I  can't." 

"  Dear  Mas  'r,  pray  to  the  good  Lord,  —  <  Lord,  I  believe ; 
help  thou  my  unbelief.'  " 

"Who  knows  anything  about  anything?"  said  St.  Clare,  his 
eyes  wandering  dreamily,  and  speaking  to  himself,  "  Was  all 
22 


338  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

that  beautiful  love  and  faith  only  one  of  the  ever-shifting  phases 
of  human  feeling,  having  nothing  real  to  rest  on,  passing  away 
with  the  little  breath  ?  And  is  there  no  more  Eva,  —  no  hea 
ven,  —  no  Christ,  —  nothing  ?  " 

<;  Oh,  dear  Mas'r,  there  is  !  I  know  it ;  I  'm  sure  of  it,"  said 
Tom,  falling  on  his  knees.  "  Do,  do,  dear  Mas'r,  believe  it !  " 

"  How  do  you  know  there  's  any  Christ,  Tom  ?  You  never 
saw  the  Lord." 

"  Felt  him  in  my  soul,  Mas'r,  —  feel  him  now !  Oh,  Mas'r, 
when  I  was  sold  away  from  my  old  woman  and  the  children, 
I  was  jest  a'most  broke  up.  I  felt  as  if  there  warn't  nothin' 
left ;  and  then  the  good  Lord,  lie  stood  by  me,  and  he  says, 
*  Fear  not,  Tom ; '  and  he  brings  light  and  joy  into  a  poor  fel 
ler's  soul,  — makes  all  peace ;  and  I's  so  happy,  and  loves  every 
body,  and  feels  willin'  jest  to  be  the  Lord's,  and  have  the  Lord's 
will  done,  and  be  put  jest  where  the  Lord  wants  to  put  me.  I 
know  it  could  n't  come  from  me,  'cause  I  's  a  poor,  complainin' 
cretur ;  it  comes  from  the  Lord ;  and  I  .know  He  's  willin'  to 
do  for  Mas'r." 

Tom  spoke  with  fast-running  tears  and  choking  voice.  St. 
Clare  leaned  his  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  wrung  the  hard, 
faithful,  black  hand. 

"  Tom,  you  love  me,"  he  said. 

"  I 's  willin'  to  lay  down  my  life,  this  blessed  day,  to  see 
Mas'r  a  Christian." 

"  Poor,  foolish  boy !  "  said  St.  Clare,  half  raising  himself. 
"  I  'in  not  worth  the  love  of  one  good,  honest  heart,  like  yours." 

"  Oh,  Mas'r,  dere  's  more  than  me  loves  you,  —  the  blessed 
Lord  Jesus  loves  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Tom  ?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Feels  it  in  my  soul.  Oh,  Mas'r  !  '  the  love  of  Christ,  that 
passeth  knowledge.'  " 

"  Singular  !  "  said  St.  Clare,  turning  away,  "  that  the  story  of 
a  man  that  lived  and  died  eighteen  hundred  years  ago  can  affect 
people  so  yet.  But  he  was  no  man,"  he  added,  suddenly.  "No 
man  ever  had  such  long  and  living  power !  Oh,  that  I  could 
believe  what  my  mother  taught  me,  and  pray  as  I  did  when  I 
was  a  boy  !  " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY, 


339 


"  If  Mas'r  pleases,"  said  Tom,  "  Miss  Eva  used  to  read  this 
so  beautifully.  I  wish  Mas'r  'd  be  so  good  as  read  it.  Don't 
get  no  readin',  hardly,  now  Miss  Eva  's  gone." 

The  chapter  was  the  eleventh  of  John,  —  the  touching  ac 
count  of  the  raising  of  Lazarus.  St.  Clare  read  it  aloud,  often 
pausing  to  wrestle  dcwn  feelings  which  were  roused  by  the 
pathos  of  the  story.  Tom  knelt  before  him,  with  clasped  hands, 
and  with  an  absorbed  expression  of  love,  trust,  adoration,  01* 
his  quiet  face. 

"Tom,"  said  his  master,  "this  is  all  real  to  you." 

"  I  can  jest  fairly  see  it,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  wish  1  had  your  eyes,  Tom." 

"  I  wish,  to  the  dear  Lord,  Mas'r  had !  " 

"  But,  Tom,  you  know  that  I  have  a  great  deal  more  knowl 
edge  than  you ;  what  if  I  should  tell  you  that  I  don't  believe 
this  Bible  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  holding  up  his  hands,  with  a  depre 
cating  gesture. 

"  Would  n't  it  shake  your  faith  some,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Not  a  grain,"  said  Tom. 

"  Why,  Tom,  you  must  know  I  know  the  most." 

"  Oh,  Mas'r,  have  n't  you  jest  read  how  he  hides  from  the 
wise  and  prudent,  and  reveals  unto  babes  ?  But  Mas'r  was  n't 
in  earnest,  for  sartin,  now  ?  "  said  Tom,  anxiously. 

"  No,  Tom,  I  was  not.  I  don't  disbelieve,  and  I  think  there 
is  reason  to  believe ;  and  still  I  don't.  It  's  a  troublesome  bad 
habit  I  've  got,  Tom." 

"  If  Mas'r  would  only  pray  !  " 

"  How  do  you  know  I  don't,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Does  Mas'r  ?  " 

"  I  would,  Tom,  if  there  was  anybody  there  when  I  pray ; 
but  it  's  all  speaking  unto  nothing,  when  I  do.  But  come,  Tom, 
you  pray,  now,  and  show  me  how." 

Tom's  heart  was  full ;  he  poured  it  out  in  prayer,  like  waters 
that  have  been  long  suppressed.  One  thing  was  plain  enough  ; 
Tom  thought  there  was  somebody  to  hear,  whether  there  were 
or  not.  In  fact,  St.  Clare  felt  himself  borne,  on  the  tide  of  his 
faith  and  feelmg,  almost  to  the  gates  of  that  heaven  he  seemed 


340  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

so  vividly  to  conceive.  It  seemed  to  bring  him  nearer  to 
Eva. 

"  Thank  you,  my  boy,"  said  St.  Clare,  when  Tom  rose ;  "  I 
like  to  hear  you,  Tom  ;  but  go,  now,  and  leave  me  alone :  som« 
other  time,  I  '11  talk  more." 

Tom  silently  left  the  room. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  341 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

REUNION. 

WEEK  after  week  glided  away  in  the  St.  Clare  mansion,  and 
the  waves  of  life  settled  back  to  their  usual  flow,  where  that  lit 
tle  bark  had  gone  down.  For  how  imperiously,  how  coolly,  in 
disregard  of  all  one's  feeling,  does  the  hard,  cold,  uninteresting 
course  of  daily  realities  move  on  !  Still  must  we  eat,  and  drink, 
and  sleep,  and  wake  again,  —  still  bargain,  buy,  sell,  ask  and 
answer  questions,  —  pursue,  in  short,  a  thousand  shadows, 
though  all  interest  in  them  be  over  ;  the  cold,  mechanical  habit 
of  living  remaining,  after  all  vital  interest  in  it  has  fled. 

All  the  interests  and  hopes  of  St.  Clare's  life  had  uncon 
sciously  wound  themselves  around  this  child.  It  was  for  Eva 
that  he  had  managed  his  property  ;  it  was  for  Eva  that  he  had 
planned  the  disposal  of  his  time ;  and,  to  do  this  and  that  for 
Eva,  —  to  buy,  improve,  alter,  and  arrange,  or  dispose  some 
thing  for  her,  —  had  been  so  long  his  habit,  that  now  she  was 
gone,  there  seemed  nothing  to  be  thought  of,  and  nothing  to  be 
done. 

True,  there  was  another  life,  —  a  life  which,  once  believed 
in,  stands  as  a  solemn,  significant  figure  before  the  otherwise 
unmeaning  ciphers  of  time,  changing  them  to  orders  of  mys 
terious,  untold  value.  St.  Clare  knew  this  well ;  and  often,  in 
many  a  weary  hour,  he  heard  that  slender,  childish  voice  call 
ing  him  to  the  skies,  and  saw  that  little  hand  pointing  to  him 
the,  way.  of  life;  but  a  heavy  lethargy  of  sorrow  lay  on  him, 
—  he  could  not  arise.  He  had  one  of  those  natures  which 
could  better  and  more  clearly  conceive  of  religious  things  from 
its  own  perceptions  and  instincts,  than  many  a  matter-of-fact 
and  practical  Christian.  The  gift  to  appreciate  and  the  sense 
to  feel  the  finer  shades  and  relations  of  moral  things  often 
seems  an  attribute  of  those  whose  whole  life  shows  a  careless 


31:2  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

disregard  of  them.  Hence  Moore,  Byron,  Goethe,  often  speak 
words  more  wisely  descriptive  of  the  true  religious  sentiment, 
than  another  man,  whose  whole  life  is  governed  by  it.  In  such 
minds,  disregard  of  religion  is  a  more  fearful  treason,  —  a  more 
deadly  sin. 

St.  Clare  had  never  pretended  to  govern  himself  by  any  relig 
ious  obligation ;  and  a  certain  fineness  of  nature  gave  him  such 
an  instinctive  view  of  the  extent  of  the  requirements  of  Chris 
tianity,  that  he  shrank,  by  anticipation,  from  what  he  felt  would 
be  the  exactions  of  his  own  conscience,  if  he  once  did  resolve 
to  assume  them.  For,  so  inconsistent  is  human  nature,  espe 
cially  in  the  ideal,  that  not  to  undertake  a  thing  at  all  seems 
better  than  to  undertake  and  come  short. 

Still  St.  Clare  was,  in  many  respects,  another  man.  He  read 
hit;  little  Eva's  Bible  seriously  and  honestly  ;  he  thought  more 
soberly  and  practically  of  his  relations  to  his  servants,  —  enough 
to  make  him  extremely  dissatisfied  with  both  his  past  and  pres^ 
en •'-,  course  ;  and  one  thing  he  did,  soon  after  his  return  to  New 
Oi leans,  and  that  was  to  commence  the  legal  steps  necessary  to 
Tom's  emancipation,  which  was  to  be  perfected  as  soon  as  he 
could  get  through  the  necessary  formalities.  Meantime,  he  at 
tached  himself  to  Tom,  more  and  more  every  day.  In  all  the 
wide  world,  there  was  nothing  that  seemed  to  remind  him  so 
much  of  Eva ;  and  he  would  insist  on  keeping  him  constantly 
about  him,  and,  fastidious  and  unapproachable  as  he  was  with 
regard  to  his  deeper  feelings,  he  almost  thought  aloud  to  Tom. 
Nor  would  any  one  have  wondered  at  it,  who  had  seen  the  ex 
pression  of  affection  and  devotion  with  which  Tom  continually 
followed  his  young  master. 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  St.  Clare,  the  day  after  he  had  com 
menced  the  legal  formalities  for  his  enfranchisement,  "  I  'm  go 
ing  to  make  a  freeman  of  you ;  so,  have  your  trunk  packed, 
and  get  ready  to  set  out  for  Kentuck." 

The  sudden  light  of  joy  that  shone  in  Tom's  face  as  he  raised 
his  hands  to  Heaven,  his  emphatic  •*  Bless  the  Lord !  "  rather 
discomposed  St.  Clare ;  he  did  not  like  it  that  Tom  should  be 
so  ready  to  leave  him. 

"  You  have  n't  had  such  very  bad  times  here,  that  yt  .  leed 
be  in  such  a  rapture,  Tom,"  he  said,  dryly. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  343 

"  No,  no,  Mas'r !  't  an?t  that,  —  it 's  bein'  a  free  man  ! 
That 's  what  I  'm  joyin'  for." 

"  ffihy*  Tom,  don't  you  think,  for  your  own  part,  you  Ve 
been  better  oft'  than  to  be  free  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Mas'r  St.  Clare,"  said  Tom,  with  a  flash  of  en 
ergy.  "  No,  indeed  !  " 

44  Why,  Tom,  you  could  n't  possibly  have  earned,  by  your 
work,  such  clothes  and  such  a  living  as  I  have  given  you." 

"  Knows  all  that,  Mas'r  St.  Clare ;  Mas'r  's  been  too  good ; 
but,  Mas'r,  I  'd  rather  have  poor  clothes,  poor  house,  poor 
everything,  and  have  them  mine,  than  have  the  best,  and  have 
'em  any  man's  else,  -~  I  had  s0,  Mas'r ;  I  think  it 's  natur, 
Mas'r." 

"  I  suppose  so,  Tom,  and  you  '11  be  going  off  and  leaving  me, 
in  a  month  or  so,"  he  added,  rather  discontentedly.  "  Though 
why  you  should  n't,  no  mortal  knows,"  he  said  in  a  gayer  tone  ; 
and,  getting  up,  he  began  to  walk  the  floor. 

44  Not  while  Mas'r  is  in  trouble,"  said  Tom.  "  I  '11  stay  with 
Mas'r  as  long  as  he  wants  me,  —  so  *s  T  can  be  any  use." 

44  Not  while  I  'm  in  trouble,  Tom  ?  "  said  St.  Clare,  looking 
sadly  out  of  the  window.  .  .  .  44  And  wh^»  will  my  trouble  be 
over  ?  " 

44  When  Mas'r  St.  Clare  's  a  Christian,"  said  Tom. 

"  And  you  really  mean  to  stay  by  till  that  day  comes  ?  "  said 
St.  Clare,  half  smiling,  as  he  turned  from  the  window,  and  laid 
his  viand  on  Tom's  shoulder.  '4  Ah,  Tom,  you  soft,  silly  boy  ! 
1  won't  keep  you  till  that  day.  Go  home  to  your  wife  and  chil 
dren,  and  give  my  love  to  all." 

44  I  's  faith  to  believe  that  day  will  come,"  said  Tom,  ear 
nestly,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes  ;  "  the  Lord  has  work  fov 
Mas'r." 

44  A  work,  hey  ?  "  said  St.  Clare  ;  "  well,  now,  Tom,  give  ma 
your  views  on  what  sort  of  a  work  it  is  ;  —  let 's  hear." 

44  Why,  even  a  poor  fellow  like  me  has  a  work  from  the  Lord ; 
and  Mas'r  St.  Clare,  that  has  larnin,  and  riches,  and  friends,  — 
how  much  he  might  do  for  the  Lord  !  " 

"  Tom,  you  seem  to  think  the  Lord  needs  a  great  deal  done 
for  him,"  said  St.  Clare,  smiling. 

We  does  for  the  Lord  when  we  does  for  his  critturs,"  said 
To   i. 


844  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Good  theology,  Tom ;  better  than  Dr.  B.  preaches,  I  dare 
6 wear,"  said  St.  Clare. 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  announcement 
of  some  visitors. 

Marie  St.  Clare  felt  the  loss  of  Eva  as  deeply  as  she  could 
feel  anything ;  and,  as  she  was  a  woman  that  had  a  great  fac 
ulty  of  making  everybody  unhappy  when  she  was,  her  imme 
diate  attendants  had  still  stronger  reason  to  regret  the  loss  of 
their  young  mistress,  whose  winning  ways  and  gentle  interces 
sions  had  so  often  been  a  shield  to  them  from  the  tyrannical 
and  selfish  exactions  of  her  mother.  Poor  old  Mammy,  in  par 
ticular,  whose  heart,  severed  from  ah1  natural  domestic  ties,  had 
consoled  itself  with  this  one  beautiful  being,  was  almost  heart 
broken.  She  cried  day  and  night,  and  was,  from  excess  of  sor 
row,  less  skilful  and  alert  in  her  ministrations  on  her  mistress 
than  usual,  which  drew  down  a  constant  storm  of  invectives  on 
her  defenceless  head. 

Miss  Ophelia  felt  the  loss ;  but,  in  her  good  and  honest  heart, 
it  bore  fruit  unto  everlasting  life.  She  was  more  softened, 
more  gentle ;  and,  though  equally  assiduous  in  every  duty,  it 
was  with  a  chastened  and  quiet  air,  as  one  who  communed  with 
her  own  heart  not  in  vain.  She  was  more  diligent  in  teaching 
Topsy,  —  taught  her  mainly  from  the  Bible,  —  did  not  any 
longer  shrink  from  her  touch,  or  manifest  an  ill-repressed  dis 
gust,  because  she  felt  none.  She  viewed  her  now  through  the 
softened  medium  that  Eva's  hand  had  first  held  before  her  eyes, 
and  saw  in  her  only  an  immortal  creature,  whom  God  had  sent 
to  be  led  by  her  to  glory  and  virtue.  Topsy  did  not  become 
at  once  a  saint;  but  the  life  and  death  of  Eva  did  work  a 
marked  change  in  her.  The  callous  indifference  was  gone ; 
there  was  now  sensibility,  hope,  desire,  and  the  striving  for 
good,  —  a  strife  irregular,  interrupted,  suspended  oft,  but  yet 
renewed  again. 

One  day,  when  Topsy  had  been  sent  for  by  Miss  Ophelia, 
she  came,  hastily  thrusting  something  into  her  bosom. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there,  you  limb  ?  You  've  been  steal 
ing  something,  I  '11  be  bound,"  said  the  imperious  little  Rosa, 
who  had  been  sent  to  call  her,  seizing  her,  at  the  same  time, 
roughly  by  the  arm. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  345 

"  You  go  'long,  Miss  Rosa !  "  said  Topsy,  pulling  from  her ; 
"  't  an't  none  o'  your  business  !  " 

"  None  o'  your  sa'ce  !  "  said  Rosa.  "  I  saw  you  hiding  some 
thing, —  I  know  yer  tricks,"  and  Rosa  seized  her  arm,  and  tried 
to  force  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  while  Topsy,  enraged,  kicked 
and  fought  valiantly  for  what  she  considered  her  rights.  The 
clamor  and  confusion  of  the  battle  drew  Miss  Ophelia  and  St. 
Clare  both  to  the  spot. 

"  She  's  been  stealing !  "  said  Rosa. 

"  I  han't,  neither !  "  vociferated  Topsy,  sobbing  with  passion. 

"  Give  me  that,  whatever  it  is !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  firmly. 

Topsy  hesitated ;  but,  on  a  second  order,  pulled  out  of  her 
bosom  a  little  parcel  done  up  in  the  foot  of  one  of  her  own  old 
stockings. 

Miss  Ophelia  turned  it  out.  There  was  a  small  book,  which 
had  been  given  to  Topsy  by  Eva,  containing  a  single  verse  of 
Scripture,  arranged  for  every  day  in  the  year,  and  in  a  paper 
the  curl  of  hair  that  she  had  given  her  on  that  memorable  day 
when  she  had  taken  her  last  farewell. 

St.  Clare  was  a  good  deal  affected  at  the  sight  of  it;  the  little 
book  had  been  rolled  in  a  long  strip  of  black  crape,  torn  from 
the  funeral  weeds. 

"  What  did  you  wrap  this  round  the  book  for  ? "  said  St. 
Clare,  holding  up  the  crape. 

"  'Cause,  —  'cause,  —  'cause  't  was  Miss  Eva.  Oh,  don't  take 
"em  away,  please !  "  she  said ;  and,  sitting  flat  down  on  the 
floor,  and  putting  her  apron  over  her  head,  she  began  to  sob 
vehemently. 

It  was  a  curious  mixture  of  the  pathetic  and  the  ludicrous,  — ~ 
the  little  old  stocking,  —  black  crape,  —  text-book,  —  fair,  soft 
curl,  —  and  Topsy's  utter  distress. 

St.  Clare  smiled ;  but  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  he 
said,  — 

"  Come,  come,  —  don't  cry  ;  you  shall  have  them  !  "  and, 
putting  them  together,  he  threw  them  into  her  lap,  and  drew 
Miss  Ophelia  with  him  into  the  parlor. 

"  I  really  think  you  can  make  something  of  that  concern," 
he  said,  printing  with  his  thumb  backward  over  his  shoulder. 
"  Any  mil  int  is  capable  of  a  real  sorrow  is  capable  of  good. 
You  must  and  do  something  with  her." 


346  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  The  child  has  improved  greatly,"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  I 
have  great  hopes  of  her ;  but,  Augustine,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  "  one  thing  I  want  to  ask ;  whose  is  this  child 
to  be  ?  —  yours  or  mine  ?  " 

" Why  I  gave  her  to  you"  said  Augustine. 

"  But  not  legally ;  —  I  want  her  to  be  mine  legally,"  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

"Whew!  cousin,"  said  Augustine.  "What  will  the  Aboli 
tion  Society  think  ?  They  '11  have  a  day  of  fasting  appointed 
for  this  backsliding,  if  you  become  a  slave-holder !  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  I  want  her  mine,  that  I  may  have  a  right  to 
take  her  to  the  free  states,  and  give  her  her  liberty,  that  all  I 
am  trying  to  do  be  not  undone." 

"  Oh,  cousin,  what  an  awful  '  doing  evil  that  good  may  come ' ! 
I  can't  encourage  it." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  joke,  but  to  reason,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
"  There  is  no  use  in  my  trying  to  make  this  child  a  Christian 
child,  unless  I  save  her  from  all  the  chances  and  reverses  of 
slavery ;  and,  if  you  really  are  willing  I  should  have  her,  I 
want  you  to  give  me  a  deed  of  gift,  or  some  legal  paper." 

" Well,  well,"  said  St.  Clare,  "I  will ; "  and  he  sat  down, 
and  unfolded  a  newspaper  to  read. 

"  But  I  want  it  done  now,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  What 's  your  hurry  ?  " 

"  Because  now  is  the  only  time  there  ever  is  to  do  a  thing 
in,"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  Come,  now,  here  's  paper,  pen,  and 
ink  ;  just  write  a  paper." 

St.  Clare,  like  most  men  of  his  class  of  mind,  cordially  hated 
the  present  tense  of  action,  generally  ;  and,  therefore,  he  was 
considerably  annoyed  by  Miss  Ophelia's  downrightness. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  said  he.  "Can't  you  take  my 
word  ?  One  would  think  you  had  taken  lessons  of  the  Jews, 
coming  at  a  fellow  so  !  " 

"  I  want  to  make  sure  of  it,"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  You  may 
die,  or  fail,  and  then  Topsy  be  hustled  off  to  auction,  spite  of  all 
I  can  do." 

"  Really,  you  are  quite  provident.  Well,  seeing  I  'm  in  the 
hands  of  a  Yankee,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  concede ; " 
and  St.  Clare  rapidly  wrote  off  a  deed  of  gift,  which,  as  he  was 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  347 

well  versed  in  the  forms  of  law,  he  could  easily  do,  and  signed 
his  name  to  it  in  sprawling  capitals,  concluding  by  a  tremendous 
flourish. 

"There,  isn't  that  black  and  white,  now,  Miss  Vermont?" 
he  said,  as  he  handed  it  to  her. 

"  Good  boy,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  smiling.  "  But  must  it  not 
be  witnessed  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bother  !  —  yes.  Here,"  he  said,  opening  the  door  into 
Marie's  apartment,  "  Marie,  cousin  wants  your  autograph ;  just 
put  your  name  down  here." 

"  What 's  this  ? "  said  Marie,  as  she  ran  over  the  paper. 
"  Ridiculous !  I  thought  cousin  was  too  pious  for  such  horrid 
things,"  she  added,  as  she  carelessly  wrote  her  name,  "  but,  if 
she  has  a  fancy  for  that  article,  I  am  sure  she  's  welcome." 

"  There,  now,  she 's  yours,  body  and  soul,"  said  St.  Clare, 
handing  the  paper. 

"  No  more  mine  now  than  she  was  before,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
"  Nobody  but  God  has  a  right  to  give  her  to  me ;  but  I  can 
protect  her  now." 

"  Well,  she  's  yours  by  a  fiction  of  law,  then,"  said  St.  Clare, 
as  he  turned  back  into  the  parlor,  and  sat  down  to  his  paper. 

Miss  Ophelia,  who  seldom  sat  much  in  Marie's  company, 
followed  him  into  the  parlor,  having  first  carefully  laid  av/ay 
the  paper. 

"Augustine,"  she  said,  suddenly,  as  she  sat  knitting,  "have 
you  ever  made  any  provision  for  your  servants,  in  case  of  your 
death?" 

"  No,"  said  St.  Clare,  as  he  read  on. 

"Then  all  your  indulgence  to  them  may  prove  a  great 
cruelty,  by  and  by." 

St.  Clare  had  often  thought  the  same  thing  himself ;  but  he 
answered,  negligently,  — 

"  Well,  I  mean  to  make  a  provision,  by  and  by." 

"  When  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Oh,  one  of  these  days." 

"  What  if  you  should  die  first  ?  " 

"  Cousin,  what 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  St.  Clare,  laying  down 
his  paper  and  looking  at  her.  "  Do  you  think  I  show  symptoms 
of  yellow  fever  or  cholera,  that  you  are  making  post-mortem  ar 
rangements  with  such  zeal  ?  " 


348  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  *  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death.'  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

St.  Clare  rose  up,  and  laying  the  paper  down,  carelessly, 
walked  to  the  door  that  stood  open  on  the  veranda,  to  put  an 
end  to  a  conversation  that  was  not  agreeable  to  him.  Me 
chanically,  he  repeated  the  last  word  again,  —  "  Death  !  "  — 
and,  as  he  leaned  against  the  railings,  and  watched  the  spark 
ling  water  as  it  rose  and  fell  in  the  fountain,  and,  as  in  a  dim 
and  dizzy  haze,  saw  the  flowers  and  trees  and  vases  of  the 
courts,  he  repeated  again  the  mystic  word  so  common  in  every 
mouth,  yet  of  such  fearful  power,  —  "  DEATH  !  "  "  Strange 
that  there  should  be  such  a  word,"  he  said,  "  and  such  a  thing, 
and  we  ever  forget  it ;  that  one  should  be  living,  warm,  and 
beautiful,  full  of  hopes,  desires,  and  wants,  one  day,  and  the  next 
be  gone,  utterly  gone,  and  forever  !  " 

It  was  a  warm,  golden  evening  ;  and,  as  he  walked  to  the 
other  end  of  the  veranda,  he  saw  Tom  busily  intent  on  his 
Bible,  pointing,  as  he  did  so,  with  his  finger  to  each  successive 
word,  and  whispering  them  to  himself  with  an  earnest  air. 

"Want  me  to  read  to  you,  Tom  ?"  said  St.  Clare,  seating 
himself  carelessly  by  him. 

"  If  Mas'r  pleases,"  said  Tom.  gratefully,  "  Mas'r  makes  it  so 
much  plainer." 

St.  Clare  took  the  book  and  glanced  at  the  place,  and  began 
reading  one  of  the  passages  which  Tom  had  designated  by  the 
heavy  marks  around  it.  It  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  When  the  Son  of  man  shall  come  in  his  glory,  and  all  his 
holy  angels  with  him,  then  shall  he  sit  upcn  the  throne  of  his 
glory  :  and  before  him  shall  be  gathered  all  nations  ;  and  he 
shall  separate  them  one  from  another,  as  a  shepherd  divideth 
his  sheep  from  the  goats."  St.  Clare  read  on  in  an  animated 
voice,  till  he  came  to  the  last  of  the  verses. 

"  Then  shall  the  king  say  unto  them  on  his  left  hand,  Depart 
from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  everlasting  fire  :  for  I  was  an  hun 
gered,  and  ye  gave  me  no  meat :  I  was  thirsty,  and  ye  gave  me 
no  drink  :  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  not  in  :  naked,  and 
ye  clothed  me  not :  I  was  sick,  and  in  prison,  and  ye  visited  me 
not.  Then  shall  they  answer  unto  Him,  Lord,  when  saw  we 
thee  an  hungered,  or  athirst,  or  a  stranger,  or  naked,  or  sick, 
OP  in  prison,  and  did  not  minister  unto  thee  ?  Then  shall  he 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  349 

say  unto  them,  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  not  to  one  of  the  least  of 
these  my  brethren,  ye  did  it  not  to  me." 

St.  Clare  seemed  struck  with  this  last  passage,  for  he  read  it 
twice,  —  the  second  time  slowly,  and  as  if  he  were  revolving  the 
words  in  his  mind. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  "these  folks  that  get  such  hard  measure 
seem  to  have  been  doing  just  what  I  have,  —  living  good,  easy, 
respectable  lives ;  and  not  troubling  themselves  to  inquire  how 
many  of  their  brethren  were  hungry,  or  athirst,  or  sick,  or  in 
prison." 

Tom  did  not  answer. 

St.  Clare  rose  up  and  walked  thoughtfully  up  and  down  the 
veranda,  seeming  to  forget  everything  in  his  own  thoughts ;  so 
absorbed  was  he,  that  Tom  had  to  remind  him  twice  that  the 
tea-bell  had  rung,  before  he  could  get  his  attention. 

St.  Clare  was  absent  and  thoughtful,  all  tea-time.  After  tea, 
he  and  Marie  and  Miss  Ophelia  took  possession  of  the  parlor, 
almost  in  silence. 

Marie  disposed  herself  on  a  lounge,  under  a  silken  mosquito 
curtain,  and  was  soon  sound  asleep.  Miss  Ophelia  silently 
busied  herself  with  her  knitting.  St.  Clare  sat  down  to  the 
piano,  and  began  playing  a  soft  and  melancholy  movement 
with  the  ^olian  accompaniment.  He  seemed  in  a  deep  reverie, 
and  to  be  soliloquizing  to  himself  by  music.  After  a  little,  he 
opened  one  of  the  drawers,  took  out  an  old  music-book  whose 
leaves  were  yellow  with  age,  and  began  turning  it  over. 

"  There,"  he  said  to  Miss  Ophelia,  "  this  was  one  of  my 
mother's  books,  —  and  here  is  her  handwriting,  —  come  and 
look  at  it.  She  copied  and  arranged  this  from  Mozart's  Re 
quiem."  Miss  Ophelia  came  accordingly. 

"  It  was  something  she  used  to  sing  often,"  said  St.  Clare. 
"  I  think  I  can  hear  her  now." 

He  struck  a  few  majestic  chords,  and  began  singing  that 
grand  old  Latin  piece,  the  "  Dies  Irae." 

Tom,  who  was  listening  in  the  outer  veranda,  was  drawn  by 
the  sound  to  the  very  door,  where  he  stood  earnestly.  He  did 
not  understand  the  words,  of  course  ;  but  the  music  and  manner 
of  singing  appeared  to  affect  him  strongly,  especially  when  St 
Clare  sang  the  more  pathetic  parts.  Tom  would  have  syin- 


350  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

pathized  more  heartily,  if  he  had  known   the  meaning  of  th« 
beautiful  words :  — 

"  Recordare  Jesu  pie 
Q.uod  sum  causa  tuae  viae 
Ne  me  perdas,  ilia  die ; 
Quserens  me  sedisti  lassus, 
Redemisti  crucem  passus, 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus."  1 

St.  Clare  threw  a  deep  and  pathetic  expression  into  the  words ; 
for  the  shadowy  veil  of  years  seemed  drawn  away,  and  he  seemed 
to  hear  his  mother's  voice  leading  his.  Voice  and  instrument 
seemed  both  living,  and  threw  out  with  vivid  sympathy  those 
strains  which  the  ethereal  Mozart  first  conceived  as  his  own 
dying  requiem. 

When  St.  Clare  had  done  singing,  he  sat  leaning  his  head 
upon  his  hand  a  few  moments,  and  then  began  walking  up  and 
down  the  floor. 

"  What  a  sublime  conception  is  that  of  a  last  judgment !  " 
said  he,  —  "a  righting  of  all  the  wrongs  of  ages !  —  a  solving 
of  all  moral  problems,  by  an  unanswerable  wisdom  !  It  is,  in 
deed,  a  wonderful  image." 

"  It  is  a  fearful  one  to  us,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  It  ought  to  be  to  me,  I  suppose,"  said  St.  Clare,  stopping, 
thoughtfully.  "I  was  reading  to  Tom,  this  afternoon,  that 
chapter  in  Matthew  that  gives  an  account  of  it,  and  I  have  been 
quite  struck  with  it.  One  should  have  expected  some  terrible 
enormities  charged  to  those  who  are  excluded  from  heaven,  as 
the  reason ;  but  no,  —  they  are  condemned  for  not  doing  posi 
tive  good,  as  if  that  included  every  possible  harm." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  it  is  impossible  for  a  person 
who  does  no  good  not  to  do  harm." 

"  And  what,"  said  St.  Clare,  speaking  abstractedly,  but  with 
deep  feeling,  "  what  shall  be  said  of  one  whose  own  heart,  whose 

*  These  lines  have  been  thus  rather  inadequately  translated:  — 

"Think,  O  Jesus,  for  what  reason 
Thou  endured'st  earth's  spite  and  treason, 
Nor  me  lose,  in  that  dread  season; 
Seeking  me,  thy  worn  feet  hasted, 
On  the  cross  thy  soul  death  tasted, 
Lit  not  all  these  toils  be  wasted." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  351 

education,  and  the  wants  of  society  have  called  in  vain  to  soire 
noble  purpose  ;  who  has  floated  on,  a  dreamy,  neutral  spectator 
of  the  struggles,  agonies,  and  wrongs  of  man,  when  he  should 
have  been  a  worker  ?  " 

"  I  should  say,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  that  he  ought  to  repent;, 
and  begin  now." 

"  Always  practical  and  to  the  point !  "  said  St.  Clare,  his  face 
breaking  out  into  a  smile.  "You  never  leave  me  any  time  fcr 
general  reflections,  cousin  ;  you  always  bring  me  short  up  again;  t 
the  actual  present ;  you  have  a  kind  of  eternal  now,  always  i  a 
your  mind." 

"  Now  is  all  the  time  I  have  anything  to  do  with,"  said  Mis  s 
Ophelia. 

"  Dear  little  Eva,  —  poor  child  !  "  said  St.  Clare,  "  she  ha  1 
set  her  little  simple  soul  on  a  good  work  for  me." 

It  was  the  first  time  since  Eva's  death  that  he  had  ever  sail 
as  many  words  as  those  of  her,  and  he  spoke  now  evidently  re 
pressing  very  strong  feeling. 

"  My  view  of  Christianity  is  such,"  he  added,  "  that  I  think 
no  man  can  consistently  profess  it  without  throwing  the  whol } 
weight  of  his  being  against  this  monstrous  system  of  injustice 
that  lies  at  the  foundation  of  all  our  society  ;  and,  if  need  be, 
sacrificing  himself  in  the  battle.  That  is,  I  mean  that  /  could 
riot  be  a  Christian  otherwise,  though  I  have  certainly  had  in 
tercourse  with  a  great  many  enlightened  and  Christian  peoplo 
who  did  no  such  thing  ;  and  I  confess  that  the  apathy  of  relig  • 
ious  people  on  this  subject,  their  want  of  perception  of  wrong! ; 
that  filled  me  with  horror,  have  engendered  in  me  more  scepti 
cism  than  any  other  thing." 

"  If  you  knew  all  this,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  why  did  n't  you 
do  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  because  I  have  had  only  that  kind  of  benevolence  which 
consists  in  lying  on  a  sofa,  and  cursing  the  church  and  clergy  for 
not  being  martyrs  and  confessors.  One  can  see,  you  know,  very 
easily,  how  others  ought  to  be  martyrs." 

"  Well,  are  you  going  to  do  differently  now  ? "  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

"  God  only  knows  the  future,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  1  am  braver 
than  I  was,  because  I  have  lost  all ;  and  he  who  has  nothing  to 
lose  can  afford  all  risks." 


352  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  My  duty,  I  hope,  to  the  poor  and  lowly,  as  fast  as  I  find  it 
out,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  beginning  with  my  own  servants,  for 
whom  I  have  yet  done  nothing,  and,  perhaps,  at  some  future 
day,  it  may  appear  that  I  can  do  something  for  a  whole  class  ; 
something  to  save  my  country  from  the  disgrace  of  that  false 
position  in  which  she  now  stands  before  all  civilized  nations." 

"  Do  you  suppose  it  possible  that  a  nation  ever  will  volunta 
rily  emancipate  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  St.  Clare.  "This  is  a  day  of  great 
deeds.  Heroism  and  disinterestedness  are  rising  up,  here  and 
there,  in  the  earth.  The  Hungarian  nobles  set  free  millions  of 
serfs,  at  an  immense  pecuniary  loss ;  and,  perhaps,  among  us 
may  be  found  generous  spirits,  who  do  not  estimate  honor  and 
justice  by  dollars  and  cents." 

"  I  hardly  think  so,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  But,  suppose  we  should  rise  up  to-morrow  and  emancipate, 
who  would  educate  these  millions,  and  teach  them  how  to  use 
their  freedom'?  They  never  would  rise  to  do  much  among  us. 
The  fact  is,  we  are  too  lazy  and  unpractical,  ourselves,  ever  to 
give  them  much  of  an  idea  of  that  industry  and  energy  which 
is  necessary  to  form  them  into  men.  They  will  have  to  go 
north,  where  labor  is  the  fashion,  —  the  universal  custom  ;  and 
tell  me,  now,  is  there  enough  Christian  philanthropy,  among 
your  Northern  States,  to  bear  with  the  process  of  their  education 
and  elevation  ?  You  send  thousands  of  dollars  to  foreign  mis 
sions  ;  but  could  you  endure  to  have  the  heathen  sent  into  your 
towns  and  villages,  and  give  your  time,  and  thoughts,  and 
money,  to  raise  them  to  the  Christian  standard  ?  That 's  what 
I  want  to  know.  If  we  emancipate,  are  you  willing  to  educate  ? 
How  many  families,  in  your  town,  would  take  in  a  negro  man 
and  woman,  teach  them,  bear  with  them,  and  seek  to  make  them 
Christians  ?  How  many  merchants  would  take  Adolph,  if  I 
wanted  to  make  him  a  clerk  ;  or  mechanics,  if  I  wanted  him 
taught  a  trade  ?  If  I  wanted  to  put  Jane  and  Rosa  to  a  school, 
how  many  schools  are  there  in  the  Northern  States  that  would 
take  them  in  ?  how  many  families  that  would  board  them  ?  and 
yet  they  are  as  white  as  many  a  woman,  north  or  south.  You 
see,  cousin,  I  want  justice  done  us.  We  are  in  a  bad  position. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  353 

We  are  the  more  obvious  oppressors  of  the  negro ;  but  the  un 
christian  prejudice  of  the  north  is  an  oppressor  almost  equally 
severe." 

"  Well,  cousin,  I  know  it  is  so,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  —  "I 
know  it  was  so  with  me,  till  I  saw  that  it  was  my  duty  to  over 
come  it ;  but,  I  trust  I  have  overcome  it ;  and  I  know  there  are 
many  good  people  at  the  north,  who  in  this  matter  need  only  to 
be  taught  what  their  duty  is,  to  do  it.  It  would  certainly  be  a 
greater  self-denial  to  receive  heathen  among  us,  than  to  send 
missionaries  to  them ;  but  I  think  we  would  do  it." 

"  You  would,  I  know,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  I  'd  like  to  see  any 
thing  you  would  n't  do,  if  you  thought  it  your  duty !  " 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  uncommonly  good,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
"  Others  would,  if  they  saw  things  as  I  do.  I  intend  to  take 
Topsy  home,  when  I  go.  I  suppose  our  folks  will  wonder,  at 
first ;  but  I  think  they  will  be  brought  to  see  as  I  do.  Besides, 
I  know  there  are  many  people  at  the  north  who  do  exactly  what 
you  said." 

"  Yes,  but  they  are  a  minority ;  and,  if  we  should  begin  to 
emancipate  to  any  extent,  we  should  soon  hear  from  you." 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  reply.  There  was  a  pause  of  some  mo 
ments  ;  and  St.  Clare's  countenance  was  overcast  by  a  sad, 
dreamy  expression. 

"  I  don't  know  what  makes  me  think  of  my  mother  so  much, 
to-night,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a  strange  kind  of  feeling,  as  if  she 
were  near  me.  I  keep  thinking  of  things  she  used  to  say. 
Strange,  what  brings  these  past  things  so  vividly  back  to  us, 
sometimes !  " 

St.  Clare  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  some  minutes 
more,  and  then  said,  — 

"  I  believe  I  '11  go  down  street,  a  few  moments,  and  hear  the 
news,  to-night." 

He  took  his  hat,  and  passed  out. 

Tom  followed  him  to  the  passage,  out  of  the  court,  and  asked 
if  he  should  attend  him. 

"  No,  my  boy,"  said  St.  Clare.     "  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour." 

Tom  sat  down  in  the  veranda.  It  was  a  beautiful  moonlight 
evening,  and  he  sat  watching  the  rising  and  falling  spray  of  the 
fountain,  and  listening  to  its  murmur.  Tom  thought  of  his 
23 


354  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

home,  and  that  he  should  soon  be  a  free  man,  and  able  to  return 
to  it  at  will.  He  thought  how  he  should  work  to  buy  his  wife 
and  boys.  He  felt  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms  with  a  sort 
of  joy,  as  he  thought  they  would  soon  belong  to  himself,  and  how 
much  they  could  do  to  work  out  the  freedom  of  his  family. 
Then  he  thought  of  his  noble  young  master,  and,  ever  second 
to  that,  came  the  habitual  prayer  that  he  had  always  offered  for 
him  ;  and  then  his  thoughts  passed  Dn  to  the  beautiful  Eva, 
whom  he  now  thought  of  among  the  angels  ;  and  he  thought  till 
he  almost  fancied  that  that  bright  face  and  golden  hair  were 
looking  upon  him,  out  of  the  spray  of  the  fountain.  And,  so 
musing,  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  he  saw  her  coming  bound 
ing  towards  him,  just  as  she  used  to  come,  with  a  wreath  of 
jessamine  in  her  hair,  her  cheeks  bright,  and  her  eyes  radiant 
with  delight ;  but,  as  he  looked,  she  seemed  to  rise  from  the 
ground  ;  her  cheeks  wore  a  paler  hue,  —  her  eyes  had  a  deep, 
divine  radiance,  a  golden  halo  seemed  around  her  head,  —  and 
she  vanished  from  his  sight ;  and  Tom  was  awakened  by  a  loud 
knocking,  and  a  sound  of  many  voices  at  the  gate. 

He  hastened  to  undo  it ;  and,  with  smothered  voices  and 
heavy  tread,  came  several  men,  bringing  a  body,  wrapped  in  a 
cloak,  and  lying  on  a  shutter.  The  light  of  the  lamp  fell  full  on 
the  face  ;  and  Tom  gave  a  wild  cry  of  amazement  and  despair 
that  rang  through  all  the  galleries,  as  the  men  advanced,  with 
their  burden,  to  the  open  parlor  door,  where  Miss  Ophelia  still 
sat  knitting. 

St.  Clare  had  turned  into  a  cafe,  to  look  over  an  evening 
paper.  As  he  was  reading,  an  affray  arose  between  two  gentle 
men  in  the  room,  who  were  both  partially  intoxicated.  St.  Clare 
and  one  or  two  others  made  an  effort  to  separate  them,  and  St. 
Clare  received  a  fatal  stab  in  the  side  with  a  bowie-knife,  which 
he  was  attempting  to  wrest  from  one  of  them. 

The  house  was  full  of  cries  and  lamentations,  shrieks  and 
screams  ;  servants  frantically  tearing  their  hair,  throwing  them 
selves  on  the  ground,  or  running  distractedly  about,  lamenting. 
Tom  and  Miss  Ophelia  alone  seemed  to  have  any  presence  of 
mind  ;  for  Marie  was  in  strong  hysteric  convulsions.  At  Miss 
Ophelia's  direction,  one  of  the  lounges  in  the  parlor  was  hastily 
prepared,  and  the  bleeding  form  laid  upon  it.  St.  Clare  had 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  355 

fainted,  through  pain  and  loss  of  blood  ;  but,  as  Miss  Ophelia  ap 
plied  restoratives,  he  revived,  opened  his  eyes,  looked  fixedly  on 
them,  looked  earnestly  around  the  room,  his  eyes  travelling 
wistfully  over  every  object,  and  finally  they  rested  on  his  moth 
er's  picture. 

The  physician  now  arrived,  and  made  his  examination.  It 
was  evident,  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  that  there  was  no 
hope  ;  but  he  applied  himself  to  dressing  the  wound,  and  he  and 
Miss  Ophelia  and  Tom  proceeded  composedly  with  this  work, 
amid  the  lamentations  and  sobs  and  cries  of  the  affrighted  ser 
vants,  who  had  clustered  about  the  doors  and  windows  of  the 
veranda. 

"Now,"  said  the  physician,  "we  must  turn  all  these  creatures 
out ;  all  depends  on  his  being  kept  quiet." 

St  Clare  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  fixedly  on  the  distressed 
beings,  whom  Miss  Ophelia  and  the  doctor  were  trying  to  urge 
from  the  apartment.  "Poor  creatures!"  he  said,  and  an  ex 
pression  of  bitter  self-reproach  passed  over  his  face.  Adolph 
absolutely  refused  to  go.  Terror  had  deprived  him  of  all  pres 
ence  of  mind  ;  he  threw  himself  along  on  the  floor,  and  nothing 
could  persuade  him  to  rise.  The  rest  yielded  to  Miss  Ophelia's 
urgent  representations,  that  their  master's  safety  depended  on 
their  stillness  and  obedience. 

St.  Clare  could  say  but  little ;  he  lay  with  his  eyes  shut,  but 
it  was  evident  that  he  wrestled  with  bitter  thoughts.  After  a 
while,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Tom's,  who  was  kneeling  beside  him, 
and  said,  "  Tom  !  poor  fellow !  " 

"  What,  Mas'r  ?  "  said  Tom,  earnestly. 

"I  am  dying!  "  said  St.  Clare,  pressing  his  hand  ;  "  pray  !  " 

"If  you  would  like  a  clergyman"  —  said  the  physician. 

St.  Clare  hastily  shook  his  head,  and  said  again  to  Tom,  more 
earnestly,  "  Pray  !  " 

And  Tom  did  pray,  with  all  his  mind  and  strength,  for  the 
soul  that  was  passing,  —  the  soul  that  seemed  looking  so  steadily 
and  mournfully  from  those  large,  melancholy  blue  eyes.  It  was 
literally  prayer  offered  with  strong  crying  and  tears. 

When  Tom  ceased  to  speak,  St.  Clare  reached  out  and  took 
his  hand,  looking  earnestly  at  him.  but  saying  nothing.  He 
closed  his  eyes,  but  still  retained  his  hold ;  for,  in  the  gates  of 


356  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

eternity,  the  black  hand  and  the  white  hold  each  other  with  an 
equal  clasp.  He  murmured  softly  to  himself,  at  broken  inter 
vals,  — 

*'  Recordare  Jesu  pie  — 

Ne  me  perdas  —  ille  die 
Quaerens  me  —  sedisti  lassus." 

It  was  evident  that  the  words  he  had  been  singing  that  even 
ing  were  passing  through  his  mind,  —  words  of  entreaty  ad 
dressed  to  Infinite  Pity.  His  lips  moved  at  intervals,  as  parts 
of  the  hymn  fell  brokenly  from  them. 

"  His  mind  is  wandering,"  said  the  doctor. 

**  No  !  it  is  coming  HOME,  at  last !  "  said  St.  Clare,  energet 
ically  ;  "  at  last !  at  last !  " 

The  effort  of  speaking  exhausted  him.  The  sinking  paleness 
of  death  fell  on  him ;  but  with  it  there  fell,  as  if  shed  from  the 
wings  of  some  pitying  spirit,  a  beautiful  expression  of  peace,  like 
that  of  a  wearied  child  who  sleeps. 

So  he  lay  for  a  few  moments.  They  saw  that  the  mighty 
hand  was  on  him.  Just  before  the  spirit  parted,  he  opened  his 
eyes,  with  a  sudden  light,  as  of  joy  and  recognition,  and  said 
J< Mother! "  and  then  he  was  gone ! 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  o67 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE    UNPROTECTED. 

WE  hear  often  of  the  distress  of  the  negro  servants  on  the  loss 
of  a  kind  master  ;  and  with  good  reason,  for  no  creature  on  God's 
earth  is  left  more  utterly  unprotected  and  desolate  than  the  slave 
in  these  circumstances. 

The  child  who  has  lost  a  father  has  still  the  protection  of 
friends,  and  of  the  law  ;  he  is  something,  and  can  do  something, 
—  has  acknowledged  rights  and  position ;  the  slave  has  none. 
The  law  regards  him,  in  every  respect,  as  devoid  of  rights  as  a 
bale  of  merchandise.  The  only  possible  acknowledgment  of  any 
of  the  longings  and  wants  of  a  human  and  immortal  creature, 
which  are  given  to  him,  comes  to  him  through  the  sovereign  and 
irresponsible  will  of  his  master  ;  and  when  that  master  is  stricken 
down,  nothing  remains. 

The  number  of  those  men  who  know  how  to  use  wholly  irre 
sponsible  power  humanely  and  generously  is  small.  Everybody 
knows  this,  and  the  slave  knows  it  best  of  all ;  so  that  he  feels 
that  there  are  ten  chances  of  his  finding  an  abusive  and  tyran 
nical  master,  to  one  of  his  finding  a  considerate  and  kind  one. 
Therefore  is  it  that  the  wail  over  a  kind  master  is  loud  and  long, 
as  well  it  may  be. 

When  St.  Clare  breathed  his  last,  terror  and  consternation 
took  hold  of  all  his  household.  He  had  been  stricken  down  so 
in  a  moment,  in  the  flower  and  strength  of  his  youth !  Every 
room  and  gallery  of  the  house  resounded  with  sobs  and  shrieks 
of  despair. 

Marie,  whose  nervous  system  had  been  enervated  by  a  con 
stant  course  of  self-indulgence,  had  nothing  to  support  the  terror 
of  the  shock,  and,  at  the  tim:  *  ^  husband  breathed  his  last, 
was  passing  from  one  fainting  fit  to  another ;  and  he  to  whom 
she  had  been  joined  w  %?/  mysterious  tie  of  marriage  passed 


358  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OB, 

from  her  forever,  without  the  possibility  of  even  a  parting 
word. 

Miss  Ophelia,  with  characteristic  strength  and  self-control,  had 
remained  with  her  kinsman  to  the  last,  —  all  eye,  all  ear,  all 
attention  ;  doing  everything  of  the  little  that  could  be  done,  and 
joining  with  her  whole  soul  in  the  tender  and  impassioned 
prayers  which  the  poor  slave  had  poured  forth  for  the  soul  of  his 
dying  master. 

When  they  were  arranging  him  for  his  last  rest,  they  found 
upon  his  bosom  a  small,  plain  miniature-case,  opening  with  a 
spring.  It  was  the  miniature  of  a  noble  and  beautiful  female 
face  ;  and  on  the  reverse,  under  a  crystal,  a  lock  of  dark  hair. 
They  laid  them  back  on  the  lifeless  breast,  —  dust  to  dust,  — 
poor  mournful  relics  of  early  dreams,  which  once  made  that  cold 
heart  beat  so  warmly  ! 

Tom's  whole  soul  was  filled  with  thoughts  of  eternity  ;  and 
while  he  ministered  around  the  lifeless  clay,  he  did  not  once 
think  that  the  sudden  stroke  had  left  him  in  hopeless  slavery.  He 
felt  at  peace  about  his  master ;  for  in  that  hour,  when  he  had 
poured  forth  his  prayer  into  the  bosom  of  his  Father,  he  had 
found  an  answer  of  quietness  and  assurance  springing  up  within 
himself.  In  the  depths  of  his  own  affectionate  nature,  he  felt 
able  to  perceive  something  of  the  fulness  of  Divine  love  ;  for  an 
old  oraclo  hath  thus  written,  —  "  He  that  dwelleth  in  love  dwell- 
eth  in  God,  and  God  in  him."  Tom  hoped  and  trusted,  and 
was  at  peace. 

But  the  funeral  passed,  with  all  its  pageant  of  black  crape, 
and  prayers,  and  solemn  faces ;  and  back  rolled  the  cool, 
muddy  waves  of  every-day  life  ;  and  up  came  the  everlasting 
hard  inquiry  of  '•  What  is  to  be  done  next  ?  " 

It  rose  to  the  mind  of  Marie,  as,  dressed  in  loose  morning- 
robes,  and  surrounded  by  anxious  servants,  she  sat  up  in  a  great 
easy-chair,  and  inspected  samples  of  crape  and  bombazine.  It 
rose  to  Miss  Ophelia,  who  began  to  turn  her  thoughts  towards 
her  northern  home.  It  rose,  in  silent  terrors,  to  the  minds  of 
the  servants,  who  well  knew  the  unfeeling,  tyrannical  character 
of  the  mistress  in  whose  hands  they  were  left.  All  knew,  very 
wall,  that  the  indulgences  which  had  been  accorded  to  them 
were  not  from  their  mistress,  but  from  their  master  ;  and  that, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  359 

now  he  was  gone,  there  would  be  no  screen  between  them  and 
every  tyrannous  infliction  which  a  temper  soured  by  affliction 
might  devise. 

It  was  about  a  fortnight  after  the  funeral,  that  Miss  Ophelia, 
busied  one  day  in  her  apartment,  heard  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door. 
She  opened  it,  and  there  stood  Rosa,  the  pretty  young  quadroon, 
whom  we  have  before  often  noticed,  her  hair  in  disorder,  and  her 
eyes  swelled  with  crying. 

"Oh,  Miss  Feely,"  she  said,  falling  on  her  knees,  and  catch 
ing  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  "  do,  do  go  to  Miss  Marie  for  me !  do 
plead  for  me !  She  's  goin'  to  send  me  out  to  be  whipped,  — 
look  there  !  "  And  she  handed  to  Miss  Ophelia  a  paper. 

It  was  an  order,  written  in  Marie's  delicate  Italian  hand,  to 
the  master  of  a  whipping  establishment,  to  give  the  bearer  fif 
teen  lashes. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  You  know,  Miss  Feely,  I  've  got  such  a  bad  temper ;  it 's 
very  bad  of  me.  I  was  trying  on  Miss  Marie's  dress,  and  she 
slapped  my  face ;  and  I  spoke  out  before  I  thought,  and  was 
saucy,  and  she  said  that  she  'd  bring  me  down,  and  have  me 
know,  once  for  all,  that  I  was  n't  going  to  be  so  topping  as  I  had 
been  ;  and  she  wrote  this,  and  says  I  shall  carry  it.  I  'd  rather 
she  'd  kill  me,  right  out." 

Miss  Ophelia  stood  considering,  with  the  paper  in  her  hand. 

"  You  see,  Miss  Feely,"  said  Rosa,  "  I  don't  mind  the  whip 
ping  so  much,  if  Miss  Marie  or  you  was  to  do  it ;  but,  to  be  sent 
to  a  man  !  and  such  a  horrid  man,  —  the  shame  of  it,  Miss 
Feely  ! " 

Miss  Ophelia  well  knew  that  it  was  the  universal  custom  to 
send  women  and  young  girls  to  whipping-houses,  to  the  hands  of 
the  lowest  of  men,  —  men  vile  enough  to  make  this  their  profes 
sion,  —  there  to  be  subjected  to  brutal  exposure  and  shameful 
correction.  She  had  known  it  before ;  but  hitherto  she  had 
never  realized  it,  till  she  saw  the  slender  form  of  Rosa  almost 
convulsed  with  distress.  All  the  honest  blood  of  womanhood, 
the  strong  New  England  blood  of  liberty,  flushed  to  her  cheeks, 
and  throbbed  bitterly  in  her  indignant  heart ;  but,  with  habitual 
prudence  and  self-control,  she  mastered  herself,  and,  crushing 
the  paper  firmly  in  her  hand,  she  merely  said  to  Rosa,  — 


360  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"  Sit  down,  child,  while  I  go  to  your  mistress." 

"Shameful!  monstrous!  outrageous  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  was  crossing  the  parlor. 

She  found  Marie  sitting  up  in  her  easy-chair,  with  Mammy 
standing  by  her,  combing  her  hair ;  Jane  sat  on  the  ground  be 
fore  her,  busy  in  chafing  her  feet. 

"  How  do  you  find  yourself,  to-day  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

A  deep  sigh,  and  a  closing  of  the  eyes,  was  the  only  reply, 
for  a  moment ;  and  then  Marie  answered  :  "  Oh,  I  don't  know, 
cousin ;  I  suppose  I  'm  as  well  as  I  ever  shall  be !  "  and  Marie 
wiped  her  eyes  with  a  cambric  handkerchief,  bordered  with  an 
inch  deep  of  black. 

"  I  came,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  with  a  short,  dry  cough,  such 
as  commonly  introduces  a  difficult  subject,  —  "I  came  to  speak 
with  you  about  poor  Rosa." 

Marie's  eyes  were  open  wide  enough  now,  and  a  flush  rose  to 
her  sallow  cheeks,  as  she  answered,  sharply,  — 

"  Well,  what  about  her  ?  " 
" "  She  is  very  sorry  for  her  fault." 

"  She  is,  is  she  ?  She  '11  be  sorrier,  before  I  've  done  with 
her  !  I  Ve  endured  that  child's  impudence  long  enough ;  and 
now  I  '11  bring  her  down,  —  I  '11  make  her  lie  in  the  dust !  " 

"  But  could  not  you  punish  her  some  other  way,  —  some  way 
that  would  be  less  shameful  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  shame  her  ;  that 's  just  what  I  want.  She  has 
all  her  life  presumed  on  her  delicacy,  and  her  good  looks,  and 
her  lady-like  airs,  till  she  forgets  who  she  is ;  —  and  I  '11  give 
her  one  lesson  that  will  bring  her  down,  I  fancy !  " 

"  But,  cousin,  consider  that,  if  you  destroy  delicacy  and  a 
sense  of  shame  in  a  young  girl,  you  deprave  her  very  fast." 

"  Delicacy !  "  said  Marie,  with  a  scornful  laugh,  —  "a  fine 
word  for  such  as  she  !  I  '11  teach  her,  with  all  her  airs,  that 
she  's  no  better  than  the  raggedest  black  wench  that  walks  the 
streets  !  She  '11  take  no  more  airs  with  me  !  " 

"  You  will  answer  to  God  for  such  cruelty !  "  said  Miss  Ophe 
lia,  with  energy. 

"  Cruelty,  —  I  'd  like  to  know  what  the  cruelty  is  !  I  wrote 
orders  for  only  fifteen  lashes,  and  told  him  to  put  them  on 
lightly.  I  'm  sure,  there  's  no  cruelty  there  !  " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  361 

"  No  cruelty !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  I  'm  sure  any  girl 
might  rather  be  killed  outright  !  " 

"  It  might  seem  so  to  anybody  with  your  feeling  ;  but  all 
these  creatures  get  used  to  it ;  it 's  the  only  way  they  can  be 
kept  in  order.  Once  let  them  feel  that  they  are  to  take  any 
airs  about  delicacy,  and  all  that,  and  they  '11  run  all  over  you, 
just  as  my  servants  always  have.  I  've  begun  now  to  bring 
them  under  ;  and  I  '11  have  them  all  to  know  that  I  11  send  one 
out  to  be  whipped,  as  soon  as  another,  if  they  don't  mind  them 
selves  ! "  said  Marie,  looking  around  her  decidedly. 

Jane  hung  her  head  and  cowered  at  this,  for  she  felt  as  if  it 
was  particularly  directed  to  her.  Miss  Ophelia  sat  for  a  mo 
ment,  as  if  she  had  swallowed  some  explosive  mixture,  and  were 
ready  to  burst.  Then,  recollecting  the  utter  uselessness  of  con 
tention  with  such  a  nature,  she  shut  her  lips  resolutely,  gathered 
herself  up,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  hard  to  go  back  and  tell  Rosa  that  she  could  do  noth 
ing  for  her ;  and,  shortly  after,  one  of  the  man-servants  came  to 
say  that  her  mistress  had  ordered  him  to  take  Rosa  with  him  to 
the  whipping-house,  whither  she  was  hurried,  in  spite  of  her 
tears  and  entreaties. 

A  few  days  after,  Tom  was  standing  musing  by  the  balconies, 
when  he  was  joined  by  Adolph,  who,  since  the  death  of  his  mas 
ter,  had  been  entirely  crestfallen  and  disconsolate.  Adolph 
knew  that  he  had  always  been  an  object  of  dislike  to  Marie ; 
but  while  his  master  lived  he  had  paid  but  little  attention  to  it. 
Now  that  he  was  gone,  he  had  moved  about  in  daily  dread  and 
trembling,  not  knowing  what  might  befall  him  next.  Marie 
had  held  several  consultations  with  her  lawyer ;  after  commu 
nicating  with  St.  Clare's  brother,  it  was  determined  to  sell  the 
place,  and  all  the  servants,  except  her  own  personal  property, 
and  these  she  intended  to  take  with  her,  and  go  back  to  her  fa 
ther's  plantation. 

"  Do  ye  know,  Tom,  that  we  've  all  got  to  be  sold  ?  "  said 
Adolph. 

"  How  did  you  hear  that  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  I  hid  myself  behind  the  curtains  when  Missis  was  talking 
with  the  lawyer.  In  a  few  days  we  shall  all  be  sent  off  to  auc 
tion,  Tom." 


362  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  The  Lord's  will  be  done !  "  said  Tom,  folding  his  arms  and 
sighing  heavily. 

"  We  '11  never  get  another  such  a  master,"  said  Adolph,  ap 
prehensively  ;  "  hut  I  'd  rather  be  sold  than  take  my  chance 
under  Missis." 

Tom  turned  away  ;  his  heart  was  full.  The  hope  of  liberty, 
the  thought  of  distant  wife  and  children,  rose  up  before  his  pa 
tient  soul,  as  to  the  mariner  shipwrecked  almost  in  port  rises 
the  vision  of  the  church-spire  and  loving  roofs  of  his  native  vil 
lage,  seen  over  the  top  of  some  black  wave  only  for  one  last 
farewell.  He  drew  his  arms  tightly  over  his  bosom,  and  choked 
back  the  bitter  tears,  and  tried  to  pray.  The  poor  old  soul  had 
such  a  singular,  unaccountable  prejudice  in  favor  of  liberty,  that 
it  was  a  hard  wrench  for  him  ;  and  the  more  he  said,  "  Thy 
will  be  done,"  the  worse  he  felt. 

He  sought  Miss  Ophelia,  who,  ever  since  Eva's  death,  had 
treated  him  with  marked  and  respectful  kindness. 

"  Miss  Feely,"  he  said,  "  Mas'r  St.  Clare  promised  me  my 
freedom.  He  told  me  that  he  had  begun  to  take  it  out  for  me ; 
and  now,  perhaps,  if  Miss  Feely  would  be  good  enough  to  speak 
about  it  to  Missis,  she  would  feel  like  goin'  on  with  it,  as  it  was 
Mas'r  St.  Clare's  wish." 

"  I  '11  speak  for  you,  Tom,  and  do  my  best,"  said  Miss  Ophe 
lia  ;  "  but,  if  it  depends  on  Mrs.  St.  Clare,  I  can't  hope  much 
for  you ;  —  nevertheless,  I  will  try." 

This  incident  occurred  a  few  days  after  that  of  Rosa,  while 
Miss  Ophelia  was  busied  in  preparations  to  return  north. 

Seriously  reflecting  within  herself,  she  considered  that  per 
haps  she  had  shown  too  hasty  a  warmth  of  language  in  her 
former  interview  with  Marie  ;  and  she  resolved  that  she  would 
now  endeavor  to  moderate  her  zeal,  and  to  be  as  conciliatory  as 
possible.  So  the  good  soul  gathered  herself  up,  and,  taking  her 
knitting,  resolved  to  go  into  Marie's  room,  be  as  agreeable  as 
possible,  and  negotiate  Tom's  case  with  all  the  diplomatic  skill 
of  which  she  was  mistress. 

She  found  Marie  reclining  at  length  upon  a  lounge,  support 
ing  herself  on  one  elbow  by  pillows,  while  Jane,  who  had  been 
ont  shopping,  was  displaying  before  her  certain  samples  of  thin 
black  stuffs. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  363 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Marie,  selecting  one ;  "  only  I  'm  not 
sure  about  its  being  properly  mourning." 

"  Laws,  Missis,"  said  Jane,  volubly,  "  Mrs.  General  Derben- 
non  wore  just  this  very  thing,  after  the  General  died,  last  sum 
mer  ;  it  makes  up  lovely  !  " 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  said  Marie  to  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  It 's  a  matter  of  custom,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
"  You  can  judge  about  it  better  than  I." 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Marie,  "  that  I  have  n't  a  dress  in  the 
world  that  I  can  wear;  and,  as  I  am  going  to  break  up  the 
establishment,  and  go  off,  next  week,  I  must  decide  upon  some 
thing." 

"  Are  you  going  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Yes.  St.  Clare's  brother  has  written,  and  he  and  the  law 
yer  think  that  the  servants  and  furniture  had  better  be  put  up 
at  auction,  and  the  place  left  with  our  lawyer." 

"  There 's  one  thing  I  wanted  to  speak  with  you  about,"  said 
Miss  Ophelia.  "  Augustine  promised  Tom  his  liberty,  and  began 
the  legal  forms  necessary  to  it.  I  hope  you  will  use  your  influ 
ence  to  have  it  perfected." 

"  Indeed,  I  shall  do  no  such  thing !  "  said  Marie,  sharply. 
"  Tom  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  servants  on  the  place,  —  it 
could  n't  be  afforded,  any  way.  Besides,  what  does  he  want  of 
liberty  ?  He 's  a  great  deal  better  off  as  he  is." 

"  But  he  does  desire  it,  very  earnestly,  and  his  master  prom 
ised  it,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  I  dare  say  he  does  want  it,"  said  Marie  ;  "  they  all  want  it, 
just  because  they  are  a  discontented  set,  —  always  wanting  what 
they  have  n't  got.  Now,  I  'm  principled  against  emancipating, 
in  any  case.  Keep  a  negro  under  the  care  of  a  master,  and  he 
does  well  enough,  and  is  respectable  ;  but  set  them  free,  and 
they  get  lazy,  and  won't  work,  and  take  to  drinking,  and  go  all 
down  to  be  mean,  worthless  fellows.  I  've  seen  it  tried,  hun 
dreds  of  times.  It 's  no  favor  to  set  them  free." 

"  But  Tom  is  so  steady,  industrious,  and  pious." 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  tell  me  !     I  've  seen  a  hundred  like  him. 
He  '11  do  very  well,  as  long  as  he  's  taken  care  of,  —  that 's  all." 
"  But,  then,  consider,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  when  you  set  him 
Hp  for  sale,  the  chances  of  his  getting  a  bad  master." 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  humbug  !  "  said  Marie  ;  "  it  is  n't  one  time  in 


364  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

a  hundred  that  a  good  fellow  gets  a  bad  master ;  most  masters 
are  good,  for  all  the  talk  that  is  made.  I  've  lived  and  grown 
up  here,  in  the  south,  and  I  never  yet  was  acquainted  with  a 
master  that  did  n't  treat  his  servants  well,  —  quite  as  well  as  is 
worth  while.  I  don't  feel  any  fears  on  that  head." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  energetically,  "  I  know  it  was 
one  of  the  last  wishes  of  your  husband  that  Tom  should  have 
his  liberty ;  it  was  one  of  the  promises  that  he  made  to  dear 
little  Eva  on  her  death-bed,  and  I  should  not  think  you  would 
feel  at  liberty  to  disregard  it." 

Marie  had  her  face  covered  with  her  handkerchief  at  this 
appeal,  and  began  sobbing  and  using  her  smelling-bottle,  with 
great  vehemence. 

"  Everybody  goes  against  me  !  "  she  said.  "  Everybody  is 
so  inconsiderate !  I  should  n't  have  expected  that  you  would 
bring  up  all  these  remembrances  of  my  troubles  to  me,  —  it 's 
so  inconsiderate  !  But  nobody  ever  does  consider,  —  my  trials 
are  so  peculiar  !  It 's  so  hard,  that  when  I  had  only  one 
daughter,  she  should  have  been  taken  !  —  and  when  I  had  a 
husband  that  just  exactly  suited  me,  —  and  I  'm  so  hard  to  be 
suited  !  —  he  should  be  taken  !  And  you  seem  to  have  so  little 
feeling  for  me,  and  keep  bringing  it  up  to  me  so  carelessly,  — 
when  you  know  how  it  overcomes  me !  I  suppose  you  mean 
well ;  but  it  is  very  inconsiderate,  —  very  !  "  And  Marie 
sobbed,  and  gasped  for  breath,  and  called  Mammy  to  open  the 
window,  and  to  bring  her  the  camphor-bottle,  and  to  bathe  her 
head,  and  unhook  her  dress.  And,  in  the  general  confusion  that 
ensued,  Miss  Ophelia  made  her  escape  to  her  apartment. 

She  saw,  at  once,  that  it  would  do  no  good  to  say  anything 
more  ;  for  Marie  had  an  indefinite  capacity  for  hysteric  fits  ; 
and,  after  this,  whenever  her  husband's  or  Eva's  wishes  with 
regard  to  the  servants  were  alluded  to,  she  always  found  it  con 
venient  to  set  one  in  operation.  Miss  Ophelia,  therefore,  did 
the  next  best  thing  she  could  for  Tom,  —  she  wrote  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  Shelby  for  him,  stating  his  troubles,  and  urging  them  to 
send  to  his  relief. 

The  next  day,  Tom  and  Adolph,  and  some  half  a  dozen  other 
servants,  were  marched  down  to  a  slave  warehouse,  to  await  the 
convenience  of  the  trader,  who  was  going  to  make  up  a  lot  fop 
auction. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  365 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE    SLAVE    WAREHOUSE. 

A  SLAVE  warehouse  !  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  conjure 
up  horrible  visions  of  such  a  place.  They  fancy  some  foul, 
obscure  den,  some  horrible  Tartarus  "  infor-mis,  ing  ens,  cui 
lumen  ademptum"  But  no,  innocent  friend ;  in  these  days 
men  have  learned  the  art  of  sinning  expertly  and  genteelly,  so 
as  not  to  shock  the  eyes  and  senses  of  respectable  society. 
Human  property  is  high  in  the  market ;  and  is,  therefore,  well 
fed,  well  cleaned,  tended,  and  looked  after,  that  it  may  come  to 
sale  sleek,  and  strong,  and  shining.  A  slave  warehouse  in  New 
Orleans  is  a  house  externally  not  much  unlike  many  others, 
kept  with  neatness  ;  and  where  every  day  you  may  see  arranged, 
under  a  sort  of  shed  along  the  outside,  rows  of  men  and  women, 
who  stand  there  as  a  sign  of  the  property  sold  within. 

Then  you  shall  be  courteously  entreated  to  call  and  examine, 
and  shall  find  an  abundance  of  husbands,  wives,  brothers,  sis 
ters,   fathers,  mothers,  and  young  children,  to  be  "  sold  sep 
arately,  or  in  lots,  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the  purchaser;'7 
and  that  soul  immortal,  once  bought  with  blood  and  anguish  by 
the  Son  of  God,  when  the  earth  shook,  and  the  rocks  were  rent,    / 
and  the  graves  were  opened,  can  be  sold,  leased,  mortgaged,  ex-  / 
changed  for  groceries  or  dry  goods,  to  suit  the  phases  of  trade, 
or  the  fancy  of  the  purchaser. 

It  was  a  day  or  two  after  the  conversation  between  Marie 
and  Miss  Ophelia,  that  Tom,  Adolph,  and  about  half  a  dozen 
others  of  the  St.  Clare  estate,  were  turned  over  to  the  loving 

kindness  of  Mr.  Skeggs,  the  keeper  of  a  depot  on street, 

to  await  the  auction  next  day. 

Tom  had  with  him  quite  a  sizable  trunk  full  of  clothing,  as 
had  most  others  of  them.  They  were  ushered,  for  the  night, 
into  a  long  room,  where  many  other  men,  of  all  ages,  sizes,  and 


366  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

shades  of  complexion,  were  assembled,  and  from  which  roars  oi 
laughter  and  unthinking  merriment  were  proceeding. 

"  Ah,  ha  !  that 's  right.  Go  it,  boys,  —  go  it !  "  said  Mr. 
Skeggs,  the  keeper.  "  My  people  are  always  so  merry  !  Sambo, 
I  see !  "  he  said,  speaking  approvingly  to  a  burly  negro  who 
was  performing  tricks  of  low  buffoonery,  which  occasioned  the 
shouts  which  Tom  had  heard. 

As  might  be  imagined,  Tom  was  in  no  humor  to  join  these 
proceedings ;  and,  therefore,  setting  his  trunk  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  noisy  group,  he  sat  down  on  it,  and  leaned  his  face 
against  the  wall. 

The  dealers  in  the  human  article  make  scrupulous  and  sys 
tematic  efforts  to  promote  noisy  mirth  among  them,  as  a  means 
of  drowning  reflection,  and  rendering  them  insensible  to  their 
condition.  The  whole  object  of  the  training  to  which  the  negro 
is  put,  from  the  time  he  is  sold  in  the  northern  market  till  he 
arrives  south,  is  systematically  directed  towards  making  him 
\  callous,  unthinking,  and  brutal.  The  slave-dealer  collects  his 
gang  in  Virginia  or  Kentucky,  and  drives  them  to  some  conven 
ient,  healthy  place,  —  often  a  watering-place,  —  to  be  fattened. 
Here  they  are  fed  full  daily  ;  and,  because  some  incline  to  pine, 
a  fiddle  is  kept  commonly  going  among  them,  and  they  are 
made  to  dance  daily  ;  and  he  who  refuses  to  be  merry  —  in 
whose  soul  thoughts  of  wife,  or  child,  or  home,  are  too  strong 
for  him  to  be  gay  —  is  marked  as  sullen  and  dangerous,  and 
subjected  to  all  the  evils  which  the  ill-will  of  an  utterly  irrespon 
sible  and  hardened  man  can  inflict  upon  him.  Briskness,  alert 
ness,  and  cheerfulness  of  appearance,  especially  before  obser 
vers,  are  constantly  enforced  upon  them,  both  by  the  hope  of 
thereby  getting  a  good  master,  and  the  fear  of  all  that  the  driver 
may  bring  upon  them,  if  they  prove  unsalable. 

"  What  dat  ar  nigger  doin'  here  ?  "  said  Sambo,  coming  up 
to  Tom,  after  Mr.  Skeggs  had  left  the  room.  Sambo  was  a  full 
black,  of  great  size,  very  lively,  voluble,  and  full  of  trick  and 
grimace. 

"  What  you  doin'  here  ?  "  said  Sambo,  coming  up  to  Tom, 
and  poking  him  facetiously  in  the  side.  "  Meditatin',  eh  ?  " 

"  I  am  to  be  sold  at  the  auction,  to-morrow  ! "  said  Tom, 
quietly. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  367 

"  Sold  at  auction,  —  haw !  haw !  boys,  an't  this  yer  fun  ?  I 
wish  't  I  was  gwiiie  that  ar  way  !  —  tell  ye,  would  n't  I  make 
'em  laugh  ?  But  how  is  it,  —  dis  yer  whole  lot  gwine  to-mor 
row  ?  "  said  Sambo,  laying  his  hand  freely  on  Adolph's  shoulder, 

"  Please  to  let  me  alone  !  "  said  Adolph,  fiercely,  straighten 
ing  himself  up,  with  extreme  disgust. 

"  Law,  now,  boys  !  dis  yer  '&  one  o'  yer  white  niggers,  — 
kind  o'  cream-color,  ye  know,  scented  !  "  said  he,  coming  up  to 
Adolph  and  snuffing.  "  O  Lor !  he  'd  do  for  a  tobaccer-shop  ; 
they  could  keep  him  to  scent  snuff  !  Lor,  he  'd  keep  a  whole 
shop  agwine,  —  he  would  !  " 

"  I  say,  keep  off,  can't  you  ?  "  said  Adolph,  enraged. 

"  Lor,  now,  how  touchy  we  is,  —  we  white  niggers  !  Look 
at  us,  now !  "  and  Sambo  gave  a  ludicrous  imitation  of  Adolph's 
manner  ;  "  here  's  de  airs  and  graces.  We  's  been  in  a  good 
family,  I  specs." 

"  Yes,"  said  Adolph  ;  "  I  had  a  master  that  could  have  bought 
you  all  for  old  truck !  " 

"  Laws,  now,  only  think,"  said  Sambo,  "  the  gentlemens  that 
we  is !  " 

"  I  belonged  to  the  St.  Clare  family,"  said  Adolph,  proudly. 

"  Lor,  you  did  I  Be  hanged  if  they  ar'  n't  lucky  to  get  shet  of 
ye.  Spects  they  's  gwine  to  trade  ye  off  with  a  lot  o'  cracked 
teapots  and  sich  like !  "  said  Sambo,  with  a  provoking  grin. 

Adolph,  enraged  at  this  taunt,  flew  furiously  at  his  adver 
sary,  swearing  and  striking  on  every  side  of  him.  The  rest 
laughed  and  shouted,  and  the  uproar  brought  the  keeper  to  the 
door. 

"  What  now,  boys  ?  Order,  —  order  !  "  he  said,  coming  in 
and  flourishing  a  large  whip. 

All  fled  in  different  directions,  except  Sambo,  who,  presum 
ing  on  the  favor  which  the  keeper  had  to  him  as  a  licensed  wag, 
stood  his  ground,  ducking  his  head  with  a  facetious  grin,  when 
ever  the  master  made  a  dive  at  him. 

"  Lor,  Mas'r,  't  an't  us,  —  we  's  reg'lar  stiddy,  —  it 's  these 
yer  new  hands ;  they 's  real  aggravating  —  kinder  pickin'  at  us, 
all  time ! " 

The  keeper,  at  this,  turned  upon  Tom  and  Adolph,  and  dis 
tributing  a  few  kicks  and  cuffs  without  much  inquiry,  and  leav 


368  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  J   OR, 

ing  general  orders  for  all  to  be  good  boys  aiM  g»  J.o  sleep,  left 
the  apartment. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  in  the  men's  sleeping-room, 
tke  reader  may  be  curious  to  take  a  peep  at  the  corresponding 
apartment  allotted  to  the  women.  Stretched  out  in  various  at 
titudes  over  the  floor,  he  may  see  numberless  sleeping  forms  of 
every  shade  of  complexion,  from  the  purest  ebony  to  white,  and 
of  all  years,  from  childhood  to  old  age,  lying  now  asleep.  Here 
is  a  fine  bright  girl,  of  ten  years,  whose  mother  was  sold  out 
yesterday,  and  who  to-night  cried  herself  to  sleep  when  nobody 
was  looking  at  her.  Here,  a  worn  old  negress,  whose  thin  arms 
and  callous  fingers  tell  of  hard  toil,  waiting  to  be  sold  to-mor 
row,  as  a  cast-off  article,  for  what  can  be  got  for  her  ;  and  some 
forty  or  fifty  others,  with  heads  variously  enveloped  in  blankets 
or  articles  of  clothing,  lie  stretched  around  them.  But,  in  a  cor 
ner,  sitting  apart  from  the  rest,  are  two  females  of  a  more  inter 
esting  appearance  than  common.  One  of  these  is  a  respectably 
dressed  mulatto  woman  between  forty  and  fifty,  with  soft  eyes 
and  a  gentle  and  pleasing  physiognomy.  She  has  on  her  head 
a  high-raised  turban,  made  of  a  gay  red  Madras  handkerchief, 
of  the  first  quality,  and  her  dress  is  neatly  fitted,  and  of  good 
material,  showing  that  she  has  been  provided  for  with  a  careful 
hand.  By  her  side,  and  nestling  closely  to  her,  is  a  young  girl 
of  fifteen,  —  her  daughter.  She  is  a  quadroon,  as  may  be  seen 
from  her  fairer  complexion,  though  her  likeness  to  her  mother 
is  quite  discernible.  She  has  the  same  soft,  dark  eye,  with 
longer  lashes,  and  her  curling  hair  is  of  a  luxuriant  brown.  She 
also  is  dressed  with  great  neatness,  and  her  white,  delicate  hands 
betray  very  little  acquaintance  with  servile  toil.  These  two  are 
to  be  sold  to-morrow,  in  the  same  lot  with  the  St.  Clare  servants ; 
and  the  gentleman  to  whom  they  belong,  and  to  whom  the 
money  for  their  sale  is  to  be  transmitted,  is  a  member  of  a 
Christian  church  in  New  York,  who  will  receive  the  money,  and 
go  thereafter  to  the  sacrament  of  his  Lord  and  theirs,  and  think 
no  more  of  it. 

These  two,  whom  we  shall  call  Susan  and  Emmeline,  had 
been  the  personal  attendants  of  an  amiable  and  pious  lady  of 
New  Orleans,  by  whom  they  had  been  carefully  and  piously  in 
structed  and  trained.  They  had  been  taught  to  read  and  writef 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  369 

diligently  instructed  in  the  truths  of  religion,  and  their  lot  had 
been  as  happy  an  one  as  in  their  condition  it  was  possible  to  be. 
But  the  only  son  of  their  protectress  had  the  management  of  her 
property  ;  and,  by  carelessness  and  extravagance,  involved  it  to 
a  large  amount,  and  at  last  failed.  One  of  the  largest  creditors 
was  the  respectable  firm  of  B.  &  Co.,  in  New  York.  B.  &  Co. 
wrote  to  their  lawyer  in  New  Orleans,  who  attached  the  real  es 
tate  (these  two  articles  and  a  lot  of  plantation  hands  formed  the 
most  valuable  part  of  it),  and  wrote  word  to  that  effect  to  New 
York.  Brother  B.,  being,  as  we  have  said,  a  Christian  man,  and 
a  resident  in  a  free  state,  felt  some  uneasiness  on  the  subject. 
He  did  n't  like  trading  in  slaves  and  souls  of  men,  —  of  course, 
he  did  n't ;  but,  then,  there  were  thirty  thousand  dollars  in  the 
case,  and  that  was  rather  too  much  money  to  be  lost  for  a  prin 
ciple  ;  and  so,  after  much  considering,  and  asking  advice  from 
those  that  he  knew  would  advise  to  suit  him,  Brother  B.  wrote 
to  his  lawyer  to  dispose  of  the  business  in  the  way  that  seemed 
to  him  the  most  suitable,  and  remit  the  proceeds. 

The  day  after  the  letter  arrived  in  New  Orleans,  Susan  and 
Emmeline  were  attached,  and  sent  to  the  depot  to  await  a  gen 
eral  auction  on  the  following  morning  ;  and  as  they  glimmer 
faintly  upon  us  in  the  moonlight  which  steals  through  the  grated 
window,  we  may  listen  to  their  conversation.  Both  are  weep 
ing,  but  each  quietly,  that  the  other  may  not  hear. 

"  Mother,  just  lay  your  head  on  my  lap,  and  see  if  you  can't 
sleep  a  little,"  says  the  girl,  trying  to  appear  calm. 

"  I  have  n't  any  heart  to  sleep,  Em ;  I  can't ;  it 's  the  last 
night  we  may  be  together  !  " 

u  Oh,  mother,  don't  say  so!  perhaps  we  shall  get  sold  to 
gether,  —  who  knows  ?  " 

"  If  't  was  anybody's  else  case,  I  should  say  so,  too,  Em," 
said  the  woman  ;  "  but  I  'm  so  'feard  of  losin'  you  that  I  don't 
see  anything  but  the  danger." 

"  Why,  mother,  the  man  said  we  were  both  likely,  and  would 
sell  well." 

Susan  remembered  the  man's  looks  and  words.  With  a  deadly 
sickness  at  her  heart,  she  remembered  how  he  had  looked  at 
Emmeline's  hands,  and  lifted  up  her  curly  hair,  and  pronounced 
her  a  first-rate  article.  Susan  had  been  trained  as  a  Christian, 


370  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

brought  up  in  the  daily  reading  of  the  Bible,  and  had  the  same 
horror  of  her  child's  being  sold  to  a  life  of  shame  that  any  other 
Christian  mother  might  have  ;  but  she  had  no  hope,  —  no  pro 
tection. 

"  Mother,  I  think  we  might  do  first-rate,  if  you  could  get  a 
place  as  cook,  and  I  as  chambermaid  or  seamstress,  in  some 
family.  I  dare  say  we  shall.  Let 's  both  look  as  bright  and 
lively  as  we  can,  and  tell  all  we  can  do,  and  perhaps  we  shall," 
said  Emmeline. 

"  I  want  you  to  brush  your  hair  all  back  straight,  to-morrow," 
said  Susan. 

"  What  for,  mother  ?     I  don't  look  near  so  well,  that  way." 

"  Yes,  but  you  11  sell  better  so." 

"  I  don't  see  why  !  "  said  the  child. 

"  Respectable  families  would  be  more  apt  to  buy  you,  if  they 
saw  you  looked  plain  and  decent,  as  if  you  was  n't  trying  to  look 
handsome.  I  know  their  ways  better  'n  you  do,"  said  Susan. 

"  Well,  mother,  then  I  will." 

"  And,  Emmeline,  if  we  should  n't  ever  see  each  other  again, 
after  to-morrow,  —  if  I  'm  sold  way  up  on  a  plantation  some 
where,  and  you  somewhere  else,  —  always  remember  how  you  've 
been  brought  up,  and  all  Missis  has  told  you ;  take  your  Bible 
with  you,  and  your  hymn-book ;  and  if  you  're  faithful  to  the 
Lord,  he  11  be  faithful  to  you." 

So  speaks  the  poor  soul,  in  sore  discouragement;  for  she 
knows  that  to-morrow  any  man,  however  vile  and  brutal,  how 
ever  godless  and  merciless,  if  he  only  has  money  to  pay  for  her, 
may  become  owner  of  her  daughter,  body  and  soul ;  and  then, 
how  is  the  child  to  be  faithful  ?  She  thinks  of  all  this,  as  she 
holds  her  daughter  in  her  arms,  and  wishes  that  she  were  not 
handsome  and  attractive.  It  seems  almost  an  aggravation  to 
her  to  remember  how  purely  and  piously,  how  much  above  the 
ordinary  loti  she  has  been  brought  up.  But  she  has  no  resort 
but  to  pray  ;  and  many  such  prayers  to  God  have  gone  up  from 
those  same  trim,  neatly  arranged,  respectable  slave-prisons,  — 
prayers  which  God  has  not  forgotten,  as  a  coming  day  shall 
show  ;  for  it  is  written,  "  Whoso  causeth  one  of  these  little  ones 
to  offend,  it  were  better  for  him  that  a  mill-stone  were  hanged 
about  his  neck,  and  that  he  were  drowned  in  the  depths  of  the 
sea." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  871 

The  soft,  earnest,  quiet  moonbeam  looks  in  fixedly,  marking 
the  bars  of  the  grated  windows  on  the  prostrate,  sleeping  forms. 
The  mother  and  daughter  are  singing  together  a  wild  and  mel 
ancholy  dirge,  common  as  a  funeral  hymn  among  the  slaves  :  — 

''  Oh,  where  is  weeping  Mary  ? 
Oh,  where  is  weeping  Mary  ? 

'Rived  in  the  goodly  land. 
She  is  dead  and  gone  to  heaven  ; 
She  is  dead  and  gone  to  heaven ; 

'Rived  in  the  goodly  land." 

These  words,  sung  by  voices  of  a  peculiar  and  melancholy 
sweetness,  in  an  air  which  seemed  like  the  sighing  of  earthly 
despair  after  heavenly  hope,  floated  through  the  dark  prison- 
rooms  with  a  pathetic  cadence,  as  verse  after  verse  was  breathed 

out,  — 

"  Oh,  where  are  Paul  and  Silas  ? 
Oh,  where  are  Paul  and  Silas  ? 

Gone  to  the  goodly  land. 
They  are  dead  and  gone  to  heaven  ; 
They  are  dead  and  gone  to  heaven  ; 

'Rived  in  the  goodly  land." 

Sing  on,  poor  souls !  The  night  is  short,  and  the  morning 
will  part  you  forever  ! 

But  now  it  is  morning,  and  everybody  is  astir ;  and  the 
worthy  Mr.  Skeggs  is  busy  and  bright,  for  a  lot  of  goods  is  to 
be  fitted  out  for  auction.  There  is  a  brisk  lookout  on  the  toilet ; 
injunctions  passed  around  to  every  one  to  put  on  their  best  face 
and  be  spry ;  and  now  all  are  arranged  in  a  circle  for  a  last  re 
view,  before  they  are  marched  up  to  the  Bourse. 

Mr.  Skeggs,  with  his  palmetto  on  and  his  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
walks  around  to  put  farewell  touches  on  his  wares. 

"  How 's  this  ?  "  he  said,  stepping  in  front  of  Susan  and  Em- 
meline.  "  Where  's  your  curls,  gal  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  timidly  at  her  mother,  who,  with  the  smooth 
adroitness  common  among  her  class,  answers,  — 

"  I  was  telling  her,  last  night,  to  put  up  her  hair  smooth  and 
neat,  and  not  havin'  it  flying  about  in  curls ;  looks  more  re 
spectable  so." 

"  Bother  !  "  said  the  man,  peremptorily,  turning  to  the  girl ; 
u  you  go  right  along,  and  curl  yourself  real  smart !  "  He  added. 


872  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

giving  a  crack  to  a  rattan  he  held  in  his  hand,  "  And  be  back 
in  quick  time,  too  !  " 

"  You  go  and  help  her,"  he  added,  to  the  mother.  "  Them 
curls  may  make  a  hundred  dollars  difference  in  the  sale  of  her." 

Beneath  a  splendid  dome  were  men  of  all  nations,  moving  to 
and  fro,  over  the  marble  pave.  On  every  side  of  the  circular 
area  were  little  tribunes,  or  stations,  for  the  use  of  speakers  and 
auctioneers.  Two  of  these,  on  opposite  sides  of  the  area,  were 
now  occupied  by  brilliant  and  talented  gentlemen,  enthusias 
tically  forcing  up,  in  English  and  French  commingled,  the  bids 
of  connoisseurs  in  their  various  wares.  A  third  one,  on  the 
other  side,  still  unoccupied,  was  surrounded  by  a  group,  waiting 
the  moment  of  sale  to  begin.  And  here  we  may  recognize  the 
St.  Clare  servants,  —  Tom,  Adolph,  and  others  ;  and  there,  too, 
Susan  and  Emmeline,  awaiting  their  turn  with  anxious  and  de 
jected  faces.  Various  spectators,  intending  to  purchase,  or  not 
intending,  as  the  case  might  be,  gathered  around  the  group, 
handling,  examining,  and  commenting  on  their  various  points 
and  faces  with  the  same  freedom  that  a  set  of  jockeys  discuss 
the  merits  of  a  horse. 

"  Hulloa,  Alf  !  what  brings  you  here  ?  "  said  a  young  exqui 
site,  slapping  the  shoulder  of  a  sprucely  dressed  young  man, 
who  was  examining  Aclolph  through  an  eye-glass. 

"  Well,  I  was  wanting  a  valet,  and  I  heard  that  St.  Clare's 
lot  was  going.  I  thought  I  !d  just  look  at  his  "  — 

"  Catch  me  ever  buying  any  of  St.  Clare's  people  !  Spoilt 
niggers,  every  one.  Impudent  as  the  devil !  "  said  the  other. 

"Never  fear  that !  "  said  the  first.  "  If  I  get  'em,  I  '11  soon 
have  their  airs  out  of  them ;  they  '11  soon  find  that  they  've 
another  kind  of  master  to  deal  with  than  Monsieur  St.  Clare. 
Ton  my  word,  I  '11  buy  that  fellow.  I  like  the  shape  of  him." 

"  You  '11  find  it  11  take  all  you  've  got  to  keep  him.  He  's 
deucedly  extravagant !  " 

"  Yes,  but  my  lord  will  find  that  he  can't  be  extravagant  with 
me.  Just  let  him  be  sent  to  the  calaboose  a  few  times,  and 
thoroughly  dressed  down !  I  '11  tell  you  if  it  don't  bring  him 
to  a  sense  of  his  ways !  Oh,  I  '11  reform  him,  up  hill  and  down, 
—  you  '11  see.  I  buy  him,  that  's  flat !  " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  373 

Tom  Had  been  standing  wistfully  examining  the  multitude  of 
faces  thronging  around  him,  for  one  whom  he  would  wish  to  call 
master.  And  if  you  should  ever  be  under  the  necessity,  sir,  of 
selecting,  out  of  two  hundred  men,  one  who  was  to  become 
your  absolute  owner  and  disposer,  you  would,  perhaps,  realize, 
just  as  Tom  did,  how  few  there  were  that  you  would  feel  at  all 
comfortable  in  being  made  over  to.  Tom  saw  abundance  of 
men,  —  great,  burly,  gruff  men  ;  little,  chirping,  dried  men  ; 
long-favored,  lank,  hard  men ;  and  every  variety  of  stubbed- 
looking,  commonplace  men,  who  pick  up  their  fellow-men  as 
one  picks  up  chips,  putting  them  into  the  fire  or  a  basket  with 
equal  unconcern,  according  to  their  convenience  ;  but  he  saw  no 
St.  Clare. 

A  little  before  the  sale  commenced,  a  short,  broad,  muscular 
man,  in  a  checked  shirt  considerably  open  at  the  bosom,  and 
pantaloons  much  the  worse  for  dirt  and  wear,  elbowed  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  like  one  who  is  going  actively  into  a  busi 
ness  ;  and,  coming  up  to  the  group,  began  to  examine  them  sys 
tematically.  From  the  moment  that  Tom  saw  him  approaching, 
he  felt  aa  immediate  and  revolting  horror  at  him,  that  increased 
as  he  cac*e  near.  He  was  evidently,  though  short,  of  gigantic 
strength.  His  round,  bullet-head,  large,  light-gray  eyes,  with 
their  shaggy,  sandy  eyebrows,  and  stiff,  wiry,  sunburned  hair, 
were  rather  unprepossessing  items,  it  is  to  be  confessed  ;  his 
large,  coarse  mouth  was  distended  Avith  tobacco,  the  juice  of 
which,  from  time  to  time,  he  ejected  from  him  with  great  deci 
sion  and  explosive  force ;  his  hands  were  immensely  large,  hairy, 
sunburned,  freckled,  and  very  dirty,  and  garnished  with  long 
nails,  in  a  very  foul  condition.  This  man  proceeded  to  a  very 
free  personal  examination  of  the  lot.  He  seized  Tom  by  the 
jaw,  and  pulled  open  his  mouth  to  inspect  his  teeth ;  made  him 
strip  up  his  sleeve,  to  show  his  muscle ;  turned  him  round,  made 
him  jump  and  spring,  to  show  his  paces. 

"  Where  was  you  raised  ?  "  he  added,  briefly,  to  these  inves 
tigations. 

"  In  Kintuck,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  looking  about,  as  if  for  de 
liverance. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  Had  care  of  Mas'r's  farm,"  said  Tom. 


374  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Likely  story  !  "  said  the  other,  shortly,  as  he  passed  on. 
He  paused  a  moment  before  Dolph ;  then  spitting  a  discharge 
of  tobacco-juice  on  his  well-blacked  boots,  and  giving  a  con 
temptuous  umph,  he  walked  on.  Again  he  stopped  before  Susan 
and  Emmeline.  He  put  out  his  heavy,  dirty  hand,  and  drew 
the  girl  towards  him  ;  passed  it  over  her  neck  and  bust,  felt  her 
arms,  looked  at  her  teeth,  and  then  pushed  her  back  against 
her  mother,  whose  patient  face  showed  the  suffering  she  had 
been  going  through  at  every  motion  of  the  hideous  stranger. 

The  girl  was  frightened,  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Stop  that,  you  minx  !  "  said  the  salesman  ;  "  no  whimper 
ing  here,  —  the  sale  is  going  to  begin."  And  accordingly  the 
sale  began. 

Adolph  was  knocked  off,  at  a  good  sum,  to  the  young  gentle 
man  who  had  previously  stated  his  intention  of  buying  him  ; 
and  the  other  servants  of  the  St.  Clare  lot  went  to  various  bid 
ders. 

"  Now,  up  with  you,  boy  !  d  'ye  hear  ?  "  said  the  auctioneer 
to  Tom. 

Tom  stepped  upon  the  block,  gave  a  few  anxious  looks  round ; 
all  seemed  mingled  in  a  common,  indistinct  noise,  —  the  clatter 
of  the  salesman  crying  off  his  qualifications  in  French  and  Eng 
lish,  the  quick  fire  of  French  and  English  bids  ;  and  almost  in 
a  moment  came  the  final  thump  of  the  hammer,  and  the  clear 
ring  on  the  last  syllable  of  the  word  "dollars"  as  the  auction 
eer  announced  his  price,  and  Tom  was  made  over.  —  He  had  a 
master. 

He  was  pushed  from  the  block  ;  the  short,  bullet-headed  man, 
seizing  him  roughly  by  the  shoulder,  pushed  him  to  one  side, 
saying,  in  a  harsh  voice,  '*  Stand  there,  you  !  " 

Tom  hardly  realized  anything  ;  but  still  the  bidding  went  on, 
—  rattling,  clattering,  now  French,  now  English.  Down  goes 
the  hammer  again,  —  Susan  is  sold !  She  goes  down  from  the 
block,  stops,  looks  wistfully  back,  —  her  daughter  stretches  her 
hands  towards  her.  She  looks  with  agony  in  the  face  of  the 
man  who  has  bought  her,  —  a  respectable,  middle-aged  man,  of 
benevolent  countenance. 

"  Oh,  Mas'r,  please  do  buy  my  daughter !  " 

"  I  'd  like  to,  but  I  'm  afraid  I  can't  afford  it !  "  said  the 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  '615 

gentleman,  looking,  with  painful  interest,  as  the  young  girl 
mounted  the  block,  an  1  looked  around  her  with  a  frightened 
and  timid  glance. 

The  blood  flushes  painfully  in  her  otherwise  colorless  cheek, 
her  eye  has  a  feverish  fire,  and  her  mother  groans  to  see  that 
she  looks  more  beautiful  than  she  ever  saw  her  before.  The 
auctioneer  sees  his  advantage,  and  expatiates  volubly  in  mingled 
French  and  English,  and  bids  rise  in  rapid  succession. 

"  1 11  do  anything  in  reason,"  said  the  benevolent-looking 
gentleman,  pressing  in  and  joining  with  the  bids.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  they  have  run  beyond  his  purse.  He  is  silent ;  the  auc 
tioneer  grows  warmer ;  but  bids  gradually  drop  off.  It  lies 
now  between  an  aristocratic  old  citizen  and  our  bullet-headed 
acquaintance.  The  citizen  bids  for  a  few  turns,  contemptuously 
measuring  his  opponent ;  but  the  bullet-head  has  the  advantage 
over  him,  both  in  obstinacy  and  concealed  length  of  purse,  and 
the  controversy  lasts  but  a  moment ;  the  hammer  falls,  —  he 
has  got  the  girl,  body  and  soul,  unless  God  help  her. 

Her  master  is  Mr.  Legree,  who  owns  a  cotton  plantation  on 
the  Red  River.  She  is  pushed  along  into  the  same  lot  with  Tom 
and  two  other  men,  and  goes  off,  weeping  as  she  goes. 

The  benevolent  gentleman  is  sorry ;  but,  then,  the  thing  hap 
pens  every  day  !  One  sees  girls  and  mothers  crying,  at  these 
sales,  always  f  it  can't  be  helped,  etc.  ;  and  he  walks  off,  with 
his  acquisition,  in  another  direction. 

Two  days  after,  the  lawyer  of  the  Christian  firm  of  B.  &  Co., 
New  York,  sent  on  their  money  to  them.  On  the  reverse  of 
that  draft,  so  obtained,  let  them  write  these  words  of  the  great 
Paymaster,  to  whom  they  shall  make  up  their  account  in  a  fu 
ture  day  :  "  When  he  maketh  inquisition  for  Hood,  Jieforgetteth 
not  the  cry  of  the  humble  !  " 


876  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE    MIDDLE    PASSAGE. 

"  Thou  art  of  purer  eyes  than  to  behold  evil,  and  canst  not  look  upon  iniquity  :  where- 
fore  lookest  thou  upon  them  that  deal  treacherously,  and  holdest  thy  tongue  when  th« 
wicked  devoureth  the  man  that  ia  more  righteous  than  he  ?  "  —  Hab.  i.  13. 

ON  the  lower  part  of  a  small,  mean  boat,  on  the  Red  River, 
Tom  sat,  —  chains  on  his  wrists,  chains  on  his  feet,  and  a  weight 
heavier  than  chains  lay  on  his  heart.  All  had  faded  from  his 
sky,  —  moon  and  star  ;  all  had  passed  by  him,  as  the  trees  and 
banks  were  now  passing,  to  return  no  more.  Kentucky  home, 
with  wife  and  children,  and  indulgent  owners  ;  St.  Clare  home, 
with  all  its  refinements  and  splendors  ;  the  golden  head  of  Eva5 
with  its  saint-like  eyes ;  the  proud,  gay,  handsome,  seemingly 
careless,  yet  ever-kind  St.  Clare  ;  hours  of  ease  and  indulgent 
leisure,  —  all  gone  !  and  in  place  thereof,  what  remains  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  bitterest  apportionments  of  a  lot  of  slavery, 
that  the  negro,  sympathetic  and  assimilative,  after  acquiring,  in 
a  refined  family,  the  tastes  and  feelings  which  form  the  atmos 
phere  of  such  a  place,  is  not  the  less  liable  to  become  the  bond 
slave  of  the  coarsest  and  most  brutal,  —  just  as  a  chair  or  table, 
which  once  decorated  the  superb  saloon,  comes,  at  last,  battered 
and  defaced,  to  the  bar-room  of  some  filthy  tavern,  or  some  low 
haunt  of  vulgar  debauchery.  The  great  difference  is,  that  the 
table  and  chair  cannot  feel,  and  the  man  can ;  for  even  a  legal 
enactment  that  he  shall  be  "  taken,  reputed,  adjudged  in  law, 
to  be  a  chattel  personal,"  cannot  blot  out  his  soul,  with  its  own 
private  little  world  of  memories,  hopes,  loves,  fears,  and  desires. 

Mr.  Simon  Legree,  Tom's  master,  had  purchased  slaves  at 
one  place  and  another,  in  New  Orleans,  to  the  number  of  eight, 
and  driven  them,  handcuffed,  in  couples  of  two  and  two,  down 
to  the  good  steamer  Pirate,  which  lay  at  the  levee,  ready  for  9 
trip  up  the  Red  River. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  377 

Having  got  them  fairly  on  board,  and  the  boat  being  off,  he 
came  round,  with  that  air  of  efficiency  which  ever  characterized 
him,  to  take  a  review  of  them.  Stopping  opposite  to  Tom,  who  / 
had  been  attired  for  sale  in  his  best  broadcloth  suit,  with  well- 
starched  linen  and  shining  boots,  he  briefly  expressed  himself 
as  follows  :  — 

"  Stand  up." 

Tom  stood  up. 

"  Take  off  that  stock !  "  and,  as  Tom,  encumbered  by  his 
fetters,  proceeded  to  do  it,  he  assisted  him,  by  pulling  it,  with  no 
gentle  hand,  from  his  neck,  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket. 

Legree  now  turned  to  Tom's  trunk,  which,  previous  to  this, 
he  had  been  ransacking,  and,  taking  from  it  a  pair  of  old  pan 
taloons  and  a  dilapidated  coat,  which  Tom  had  been  wont  to 
put  on  about  his  stable-work,  he  said,  liberating  Tom's  hands 
from  the  handcuffs,  and  pointing  to  a  recess  in  among  the 
boxes,  — 

"  You  go  there,  and  put  these  on." 

Tom  obeyed,  and  in  a  few  moments  returned. 

"  Take  off  your  boots,"  said  Mr.  Legree. 

Tom  did  so. 

"  There,"  said  the  former,  throwing  him  a  pair  of  coarse, 
stout  shoes,  such  as  were  common  among  the  slaves,  "  put  these 
on." 

In  Tom's  hurried  exchange,  he  had  not  forgotten  to  transfer 
his  cherished  Bible  to  his  pocket.  It  was  well  he  did  so  ;  for 
Mr.  Legree,  having  refitted  Tom's  handcuffs,  proceeded  deliber 
ately  to  investigate  the  contents  of  his  pockets.  He  drew  out 
a  silk  handkerchief,  and  put  it  into  his  own  pocket.  Several 
little  trifles,  which  Tom  had  treasured,  chiefly  because  they  had 
amused  Eva,  he  looked  upon  with  a  contemptuous  grunt,  and 
tossed  them  over  his  shoulder  into  the  river. 

Tom's  Methodist  hymn-book,  which,  in  his  hurry,  he  had  for 
gotten,  he  now  held  up  and  turned  over. 

"  Humph  !  pious,  to  be  sure.  So,  what 's  yer  name*  —  you 
belong  to  the  church,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  firmly. 

"  Well,  I  '11  soon  have  that  out  of  you.  I  have  none  o'  yer 
bawling,  praying,  singing  niggers  on  my  place ;  so  remember, 


378  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

Now,  mind  yourself,"  he  said,  with  a  stamp  and  a  fierce  glance 
of  his  gray  eye,  directed  at  Tom,  "  I'm  your  church  now  !  You 
understand,  —  you  've  got  to  be  as  I  say." 

Something  within  the  silent  black  man  answered  No  !  and, 
as  if  repeated  by  an  invisible  voice,  came  the  words  of  an  old 
prophetic  scroll,  as  Eva  had  often  read  them  to  him,  —  "  Fear 
not!  for  I  have  redeemed  thee.  I  have  called  thee  by  my 
name.  Thou  art  MINE  !  " 

But  Simon  Legree  heard  no  voice.  That  voice  is  one  he 
never  shall  hear.  He  only  glared  for  a  moment  on  the  down 
cast  face  of  Tom,  and  walked  off.  He  took  Tom's  trunk,  which 
contained  a  very  neat  and  abundant  wardrobe,  to  the  forecastle, 
where  it  was  soon  surrounded  by  various  hands  of  the  boat. 
With  much  laughing,  at  the  expense  of  niggers  who  tried  to  be 
gentlemen,  the  articles  very  readily  were  sold  to  one  and  an 
other,  and  the  empty  trunk  finally  put  up  at  auction.  It  was  a 
good  joke,  they  all  thought,  especially  to  see  how  Tom  looked 
after  his  things,  as  they  were  going  this  way  and  that ;  and  then 
the  auction  of  the  trunk,  that  was  funnier  than  all,  and  occa 
sioned  abundant  witticisms. 

This  little  affair  being  over,  Simon  sauntered  up  again  to  his 
property. 

"  Now,  Tom,  I  've  relieved  you  of  any  extra  baggage,  you 
see.  Take  mighty  good  care  of  them  clothes.  It  '11  be  long 
enough  'fore  you  get  more.  I  go  in  for  making  niggers  careful ; 
one  suit  has  to  do  for  one  year,  on  my  place." 

Simon  next  walked  up  to  the  place  where  Emmeline  was  sit 
ting,  chained  to  another  woman. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  chucking  her  under  the  chin, 
"  keep  up  your  spirits." 

The  involuntary  look  of  horror,  fright,  and  aversion  with 
which  the  girl  regarded  him,  did  not  escape  his  eye.  He 
frowned  fiercely. 

"  None  o'  your  shines,  gal !  you 's  got  to  keep  a  pleasant  face, 
when  I  speak  to  ye,  —  d'ye  hear?  And  you,  you  old  yellow 
poco  moonshine  !  "  he  said,  giving  a  shove  to  the  mulatto  woman 
to  whom  Emmeline  was  chained,  "  don't  you  carry  that  sort  of 
face  !  You 's  got  to  look  chipper,  I  tell  ye  !  " 

"  I  say,  all  on  ye,"  he   said,   retreating  a  pace  or  two  back, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  379 

'  look  at  me,  —  look  at  me,  —  look  me  right  in  the  eye,  — 
straight,  now  !  "  said  he,  stamping  his  foot  at  every  pause. 

As  by  a  fascination,  every  eye  was  now  directed  to  the  glaring 
greenish-gray  eye  of  Simon. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  doubling  his  great,  heavy  fist  into  something 
resembling  a  blacksmith's  hammer,  "  d'  ye  see  this  fist  ?  Heft 
it !  "  he  said,  bringing  it  down  on  Tom's  hand.  "  Look  at  these 
yer  bones !  Well,  I  tell  ye  this  yer  fist  has  got  as  hard  as  iron 
knocking  down  niggers.  I  never  see  the  nigger,  yet,  I  could  n't 
bring  down  with  one  crack,"  said  he,  bringing  his  fist  down  so 
near  to  the  face  of  Tom  that  he  winked  and  drew  back.  "  I 
don't  keep  none  o'  yer  cussed  overseers  ;  I  does  my  own  over 
seeing  ;  and  I  tell  you  things  is  seen  to.  You 's  every  one  on 
ye  got  to  toe  the  mark,  I  tell  ye  ;  quick,  —  straight,  —  the  mo 
ment  I  speak.  That 's  the  way  to  keep  in  with  me.  Ye  won't 
find  no  soft  spot  in  me,  nowhere.  So,  now,  mind  yerselves  ;  for 
I  don't  show  no  mercy  !  " 

The  women  involuntarily  drew  in  their  breath,  and  the  whole 
gang  sat  with  downcast,  dejected  faces.  Meanwhile,  Simon 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  marched  up  to  the  bar  of  the  boat  for  a 
dram. 

"  That 's  the  way  I  begin  with  my  niggers,"  he  said,  to  a 
gentlemanly  man,  who  had  stood  by  him  during  his  speech. 
"It's  my  system  to  begin  strong,  — just  let  'em  know  what  to 
expect." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  the  stranger,  looking  upon  him  with  the 
curiosity  of  a  naturalist  studying  some  out-of-the-way  specimen. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  I  'm  none  o'  yer  gentlemen  planters,  with 
lily  fingers,  to  slop  round  and  be  cheated  by  some  old  cuss  of 
an  overseer !  Just  feel  of  my  knuckles,  now  ;  look  at  my  fist. 
Tell  ye,  sir,  the  flesh  on  't  has  come  jest  like  a  stone,  practising 
on  niggers,  —  feel  on  it." 

The  stranger  applied  his  fingers  to  the  implement  in  question, 
and  simply  said,  — 

"'Tis  hard  enough-,  and,  I  suppose,"  he  added,  "practice 
has  made  your  heart  just  like  it." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  may  say  so,"  said  Simon,  with  a  hearty  laugh. 
"  I  reckon  there  's  as  little  soft  in  me  as  in  any  one  going. 
Tell  you,  nobody  comes  it  over  me !  Niggers  never  gets  round 
me,  neither  with  squalling  nor  soft  soap,  —  that 's  a  fact.'* 


880  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  You  have  a  fine  lot  there." 

"  Real,"  said  Simon.  "  There  's  that  Tom,  they  telled  me 
lie  was  suthin  uncommon.  I  paid  a  little  high  for  him,  'tendin' 
him  for  a  driver  and  a  managing  chap  ;  only  get  the  notions 
out  that  he  's  larnt  by  being  treated  as  niggers  never  ought  to 
be,  he  '11  do  prime !  The  yellow  woman  I  got  took  in  in.  I 
rayther  think  she 's  sickly,  but  I  shall  put  her  through  for  what 
she  's  worth ;  she  may  last  a  year  or  two.  I  don't  go  for  savin' 
niggers.  Use  up,  and  buy  more,  's  my  way,  —  makes  you  less 
trouble,  and  I  'in  quite  sure  it  comes  cheaper  in  the  end ; "  and 
Simon  sipped  his  glass, 

"  And  how  long  do  they  generally  last?  "  said  the  stranger. 

"  Well,  donno ;  'corclin'  as  their  constitution  is.  Stout  fel 
lers  last  six  or  seven  years  ;  trashy  ones  gets  worked  up  in  two 
or  three.  I  used  to,  when  I  fust  begun,  have  considerable 
trouble  fussin'  with  'em,  and  trying  to  make  'em  hold  out,  — 
doctorin'  on  'em  up  when  they  's  sick,  and  givin'  on  'em  clothes 
and  blankets,  and  what  not,  tryin'  to  keep  'em  all  sort  o'  decent 
and  comfortable.  Law,  't  was  n't  no  sort  o'  use  ;  I  lost  money 
on  'em,  and  't  was  heaps  o'  trouble.  Now,  you  see,  I  just  put 
'em  straight  through,  sick  or  well.  When  one  nigger 's  dead, 
I  buy  another ;  and  I  find  it  comes  cheaper  and  easier,  every 
way." 

The  stranger  turned  away,  and  seated  himself  beside  a  gen 
tleman,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation  with  re 
pressed  uneasiness. 

"You  must  not  take  that  fellow  to  be  any  specimen  of 
southern  planters,"  said  he. 

"I  should  hope  not,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  with  em 
phasis. 

"  He  is  a  mean,  low,  brutal  fellow !  "  said  the  other. 

"  And  yet  your  laws  allow  him  to  hold  any  number  of  human 
beings  subject  to  his  absolute  will,  without  even  a  shadow  of 
protection ;  and,  low  as  he  is,  you  cannot  say  that  there  are  not 
many  such." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  there  are  also  many  considerate 
and  humane  men  among  planters." 

"  Granted,"  said  the  young  man ;  "  but,  in  my  opinion,  it  is 
you  considerate,  humane  men,  that  are  responsible  for  all  the 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  381 

brutality  and  outrage  wrought  by  these  wretches ;  because,  if  it 
were  not  for  your  sanction  and  influence,  the  whole  system 
could  not  keep  foothold  for  an  hour.  If  there  were  no  planters 
except  such  as  that  one,"  said  he,  pointing  with  his  finger  to 
Legree,  who  stood  with  his  back  to  them,  "the  whole  thing 
would  go  down  like  a  mill-stone.  It  is  your  respectability  and 
humanity  that  licenses  and  protects  his  brutality." 

"  You  certainly  have  a  high  opinion  of  my  good  nature,"  said 
the  planter,  smiling;  "but  I  advise  you  not  to  talk  quite  so 
loud,  as  there  are  people  on  board  the  boat  who  might  not  be 
quite  so  tolerant  to  opinion  as  I  am.  You  had  better  wait  till  I 
get  up  to  my  plantation,  and  there  you  may  abuse  us  all,  quite 
at  your  leisure." 

The  young  gentleman  colored  and  smiled,  and  the  two  were 
soon  busy  in  a  game  of  backgammon.  Meanwhile,  another 
conversation  was  going  on  in  the  lower  part  of  the  boat,  between 
Emmeline  and  the  mulatto  woman  with  whom  she  was  confined. 
As  was  natural,  they  were  exchanging  with  each  other  some 
particulars  of  their  history. 

"  Who  did  you  belong  to  ?  "  said  Emmeline. 

"Well,  my  Mas'r  was  Mr.  Ellis,  —  lived  on  Levee  Street. 
P'r'aps  you  've  seen  the  house." 

"  Was  he  good  to  you  ?  "  said  Emmeline. 

"  Mostly,  till  he  tuk  sick.  He  's  lain  sick,  off  and  on,  more 
than  six  months,  and  been  orful  oneasy.  'Pears  like  he  warn't 
willin'  to  have  nobody  rest,  day  nor  night ;  and  got  so  curous, 
there  couldn't  nobody  suit  him.  'Pears  like  he  just  grew 
crosser,  every  day ;  kep  me  up  nights  till  I  got  farly  beat  out, 
and  could  n't  keep  awake  no  longer  ;  and  'cause  I  got  to  sleep, 
one  night,  Lors,  he  talk  so  orful  to  me,  and  he  tell  me  he  'd  sell 
me  to  just  the  hardest  master  he  could  find  ;  and  he  'd  promised 
me  my  freedom,  too,  when  he  died." 

"  Had  you  any  friends  ?  "  said  Emmeline. 

"  Yes,  my  husband,  —  he  's  a  blacksmith.  Mas'r  gen'ly 
hired  him  out.  They  took  me  off  so  quick,  I  did  n't  even  have 
time  to  see  him ;  and  I 's  got  four  children.  Oh,  dear  me  !  " 
said  the  woman,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

It  is  a  natural  impulse,  in  every  one,  when  they  hear  a  tale 
of  distress,  to  think  of  something  to  say  by  way  of  consolation. 


382  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

Emmeline  wanted  to  say  something,  but  she  could  not  think  of 
anything  to  say.  What  was  there  to  be  said  ?  As  by  a  com 
mon  consent,  they  both  avoided,  with  fear  and  dread,  all  men 
tion  of  the  horrible  man  who  was  now  their  master. 

True,  there  is  religious  trust  for  even  the  darkest  hour.  The 
mulatto  woman  was  a  member  of  the  Methodist  Church,  and  had 
an  unenlightened  but  very  sincere  spirit  of  piety.  Emmeline 
had  been  educated  much  more  intelligently,  —  taught  to  read 
and  write,  and  diligently  instructed  in  the  Bible,  by  the  care  of 
a  faithful  and  pious  mistress ;  yet,  would  it  not  try  the  faith  of 
the  firmest  Christians  to  find  themselves  abandoned,  apparently, 
of  God,  in  the  grasp  of  ruthless  violence  ?  How  much  more 
must  it  shake  the  faith  of  Christ's  poor  little  ones,  weak  in 
knowledge  and  tender  in  years. 

The  boat  moved  on,  —  freighted  with  its  weight  of  sorrow,  — 
up  the  red,  muddy,  turbid  current,  through  the  abrupt,  tortuous 
windings  of  the  Red  River ;  and  sad  eyes  gazed  wearily  on  the 
steep  red-clay  banks,  as  they  glided  by  in  dreary  sameness. 
At  last  the  boat  stopped  at  a  small  town,  and  Legree,  with  his 
party,  disembarked. 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  383 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

DARK   PLACES. 
"  The  dark  places  of  the  earth  are  full  of  the  habitations  of  cruelty." 

TRAILING  wearily  behind  a  rude  wagon,  and  over  a  ruder 
road,  Tom  and  his  associates  faced  onward. 

In  the  wagon  was  seated  Simon  Legree  ;  and  the  two  women, 
still  fettered  together,  were  stowed  away  with  some  baggage  in 
the  back  part  of  it;  and  the  whole  company  were  seeking 
Legree's  plantation,  which  lay  a  good  distance  off. 

It  was  a  wild,  forsaken  road,  now  winding  through  dreary 
pine  barrens,  where  the  wind  whispered  mournfully,  and  now 
over  log  causeways,  through  long  cypress  swamps,  the  doleful 
trees  rising  out  of  the  slimy,  spongy  ground,  hung  with  long 
wreaths  of  funereal  black  moss,  while  ever  and  anon  the  loath 
some  form  of  the  moccasin  snake  might  be  seen  sliding  among 
broken  stumps  and  shattered  branches  that  lay  here  and  there, 
rotting  in  the  water. 

It  is  disconsolate  enough,  this  riding,  to  the  stranger,  who/ 
with  well-filled  pocket  and  well-appointed  horse,  threads  the 
lonely  way  on  some  errand  of  business ;  but  wilder,  drearier, 
to  the  man  enthralled,  whom  every  weary  step  bears  further 
from  all  that  man  loves  and  prays  for. 

Simon  rode  on,  however,  apparently  well  pleased,  occasion 
ally  pulling  away  at  a  flask  of  spirit,  which  he  kept  in  his 
pocket. 

So  one  should  have  thought,  that  witnessed  the  sunken  and 
dejected  expression  on  those  dark  faces  ;  the  wistful,  patient 
weariness  with  which  those  sad  eyes  rested  on  object  after  ob 
ject  that  passed  them  in  their  sad  journey. 

"  I  say,  you !  "  he  said,  as  he  turned  back  and  caught  a 
glance  at  the  dispirited  faces  beJ»*nd  him.  "  Strike  up  a  song, 
boys,  —  come  !  " 


384  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  "  come  "  was  repeated, 
with  a  smart  crack  of  the  whip  which  the  driver  carried  in  his 
hands.  Tom  began  a  Methodist  hymn,  — 

"Jerusalem,  my  happy  home, 

Name  ever  dear  to  me ! 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end, 
Thy  joys  when  shall  "  — 

" Shut  up,  you  black  cuss !  "  roared  Legree  ;  "did  ye  think 
I  wanted  any  o'  yer  infernal  old  Methodism  ?  I  say,  tune  up, 
now,  something  real  rowdy,  —  quick  !  " 

One  of  the  other  men  struck  up  one  of  those  unmeaning  songs, 
common  among  the  slaves. 

"Mas'r  see'd  me  cotch  a  coon, 

High  boys,  high  ! 
He  laughed  to  split,  —  d'  ye  see  the  moon, 

Ho  !  ho  !  ho !  boys,  ho ! 
Ho  !  yo!  hi  — e!  oh!" 

The  singer  appeared  to  make  up  the  song  to  his  own  pleas 
ure,  generally  hitting  on  rhyme,  without  much  attempt  at  rea 
son  ;  and  all  the  party  took  up  the  chorus,  at  intervals,  — 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!  boys,  ho! 
High  — e  — oh!  high  — e  — oh!" 

It  was  sung  very  boisterously,  and  with  a  forced  attempt  at 
merriment;  but  no  wail  of  despair,  no  words  of  impassioned 
prayer,  could  have  had  such  a  depth  of  woe  in  them  as  the  wild 
notes  of  the  chorus.  As  if  the  poor,  dumb  heart,  threatened,  — 
prisoned,  —  took  refuge  in  that  inarticulate  sanctuary  of  music, 
and  found  there  a  language  in  which  to  breathe  its  prayer  to 
God !  There  was  a  prayer  in  it,  which  Simon  could  not  hear. 
He  only  heard  the  boys  singing  noisily,  and  was  well  pleased  ; 
he  was  making  them  "keep  up  their  spirits." 

"  Well,  my  little  dear,"  said  he,  turning  to  Emmeline,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  "  we  're  almost  home !  " 

When  Legree  scolded  and  stormed,  Emmeline  was  terrified ; 
but  when  he  laid  his  hand  on  her,  and  spoke  as  he  now  did,  she 
felt  as  if  she  had  rather  he  would  strike  her.  The  expression 
of  his  eyes  made  her  soul  sick,  and  her  flesh  creep.  Involun 
tarily  she  clung  closer  to  the  mulatto  woman  by  her  side,  as  if 
she  were  her  mother. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  885 

"  You  did  n't  ever  wear  ear-rings,"  he  said,  taking  hold  of 
her  small  ear  with  his  coarse  fingers. 

"  No,  Mas'r !  "  said  Emmeline,  trembling  and  looking  down. 

"  Well,  I  '11  give  you  a  pair,  when  we  get  home,  if  you  're  a 
good  girl.  You  need  n't  be  so  frightened  ;  I  don't  mean  to 
make  you  work  very  hard.  You  '11  have  fine  times  with  me, 
and  live  like  a  lady,  —  only  be  a  good  girl." 

Legree  had  been  drinking  to  that  degree  that  he  was  inclip 
ing  to  be  very  gracious ;  and  it  was  about  this  time  that  the 
inclosures  of  the  plantation  rose  to  view.  •  The  estate  had 
formerly  belonged  to  a  gentleman  of  opulence  and  taste,  who 
had  bestowed  some  considerable  attention  to  the  adornment  of 
his  grounds.  Having  died  insolvent,  it  had  been  purchased,  at 
a  bargain,  by  Legree,  who  used  it,  as  he  did  everything  else, 
merely  as  an  implement  for  money-making  The  place  had 
that  ragged,  forlorn  appearance,  which  is  always  produced  by 
the  evidence  that  the  care  of  the  former  owner  has  been  left  to 
go  to  utter  decay. 

What  was  once  a  smooth-shaven  lawn  before  the  house,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  ornamental  shrubs,  was  now  covered  with 
frowsy  tangled  grass,  with  horse-posts  set  up,  here  and  there,  in 
it,  where  the  turf  was  stamped  away,  and  the  ground  littered 
with  broken  pails,  cobs  of  corn,  and  other  slovenly  remains. 
Here  and  there,  a  mildewed  jessamine  or  honey-suckle  hung 
raggedly  from  some  ornamental  support,  which  had  been  pushed 
to  one  side  by  being  used  as  a  horse-post.  What  once  was  a 
large  garden  was  now  all  grown  over  with  weeds,  through  which, 
here  and  there,  some  solitary  exotic  reared  its  forsaken  head. 
What  had  been  a  conservatory  had  now  no  window-sashes,  and 
on  the  mouldering  shelves  stood  some  dry,  forsaken  flower-pots, 
with  sticks  in  them,  whose  dried  leaves  showed  they  had  once 
been  plants. 

The  wagon  rolled  up  a  weedy  gravel  walk,  under  a  noble 
avenue  of  China-trees,  whose  graceful  forms  and  ever-springing 
foliage  seemed  to  be  the  only  things  there  that  neglect  could  not 
daunt  or  alter,  —  like  noble  spirits,  so  deeply  rooted  in  goodness, 
as  to  flourish  and  grow  stronger  amid  discouragement  and  decay. 

The  house  had  been  large  and  handsome.  It  was  built  in  a 
manner  common  at  the  south  ,•  a  wide  veranda  of  two  stories 

25 


386  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

running  round  every  part  of  the  house,  into  which  every  outer 
door  opened,  the  lower  tier  being  supported  by  brick  pillars. 

But  the  place  looked  desolate  and  uncomfortable ;  some  win 
dows  stopped  up  with  boards,  some  with  shattered  panes,  and 
shutters  hanging  by  a  single  hinge,  —  all  telling  of  coarse  neg 
lect  and  discomfort. 

Bits  of  board,  straw,  old  decayed  barrels  and  boxes,  garnished 
the  ground  in  all  directions  ;  and  three  or  four  ferocious-looking 
dogs,  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  wagon-wheels,  came  tearing 
out,  and  were  with  difficulty  restrained  from  laying  hold  of  Tom 
and  his  companions,  by  the  effort  of  the  ragged  servants  who 
came  after  them. 

"  Ye  see  what  ye  'd  get !  "  said  Legree,  caressing  the  dogs 
with  grim  satisfaction,  and  turning  to  Tom  and  his  companions. 
"  Ye  see  what  ye  'd  get,  if  ye  try  to  run  off.  These  yer  dogs 
has  been  raised  to  track  niggers  ;  and  they  'd  jest  as  soon  chaw 
one  on  ye  up  as  to  eat  their  supper.  So,  mind  yerself  !  How 
now,  Sambo ! "  he  said,  to  a  ragged  fellow,  without  any  brim  to 
his  hat,  who  was  officious  in  his  attentions.  "  How  have  things 
been  going  ?  " 

"  Fust-rate,  Mas'r." 

"  Quimbo,"  said  Legree  to  another,  who  was  making  zealous 
demonstrations  to  attract  his  attention,  "  ye  minded  what  I 
telledye?" 

"  Guess  I  did,  did  n't  I  ?  " 

These  two  colored  men  were  the  two  principal  hands  on  the 
plantation.  Legree  had  trained  them  in  savageness  and  brutal 
ity  as  systematically  as  he  had  his  bull-dogs ;  and,  by  long  prac 
tice  in  hardness  and  cruelty,  brought  their  whole  nature  to  about 
the  same  range  of  capacities.  It  is  a  common  remark,  and  one 
that  is  thought  to  militate  strongly  against  the  character  of  the 
race,  that  the  negro  overseer  is  always  more  tyrannical  and 
cruel  than  the  white  one.  This  is  simply  saying  that  the  negro 
mind  has  been  more  crushed  and  debased  than  the  white.  It 
is  no  more  true  of  this  race  than  of  every  oppressed  race,  the 
world  over.  The  slave  is  always  a  tyrant,  if  he  can  get  a 
chance  to  be  one. 

Legree,  like  some  potentates  we  read  of  in  history,  governed 
his  plantation  by  a  sort  of  resolution  of  forces.  Sambo  and 
. 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  387 

Quimbo  cordially  hated  each  other  ;  the  plantation  hands,  one 
and  all,  cordially  hated  them ;  and  by  playing  off  one  against 
another,  he  was  pretty  sure,  through  one  or  the  other  of  the 
three  parties,  to  get  informed  of  whatever  was  on  foot  in  the 
place. 

Nobody  can  live  entirely  without  social  intercourse ;  and 
Legree  encouraged  his  two  black  satellites  to  a  kind  of  coarse 
familiarity  with  him,  —  a  familiarity,  however,  at  any  moment 
liable  to  get  one  or  the  other  of  them  into  trouble  ;  for,  on  the 
slightest  provocation,  one  of  them  always  stood  ready,  at  a  nod, 
to  be  a  minister  of  his  vengeance  on  the  other. 

As  they  stood  there  now  by  Legree,  they  seemed  an  apt  illus 
tration  of  the  fact  that  brutal  men  are  lower  even  than  animals. 
Their  coarse,  dark,  heavy  features ;  their  great  eyes,  rolling 
enviously  on  each  other  ;  their  barbarous,  guttural,  half-brute 
intonation ;  their  dilapidated  garments  fluttering  in  the  wind,  — 
were  all  in  admirable  keeping  with  the  vile  and  unwholesome 
character  of  everything  about  the  place. 

"Here,  you  Sambo,"  said  Legree,  "  take  these  yer  boys  down 
to  the  quarters ;  and  here  's  a  gal  I  've  got  for  you"  said  he,  as 
he  separated  the  mulatto  woman  from  Emmeline,  and  pushed 
her  towards  him;  —  "I  promised  to  bring  you  one,  you  know." 

The  woman  gave  a  sudden  start,  and,  drawing  back,  said  sud 
denly,  — 

"Oh,  Mas'r !  I  left  my  old  man  in  New  Orleans." 

"  What  of  that,  you ;  won't  you  want  one  here  ?     None 

o'  yer  words,  —  go  'long  !  "  said  Legree,  raising  his  whip. 

"  Come,  mistress,"  he  said  to  Emmeline,  "  you  go  in  here 
with  me." 

A  dark,  wild  face  was  seen,  for  a  moment,  to  glance  at  the 
window  of  the  house  ;  and,  as  Legree  opened  the  door,  a  female 
voice  said  something,  in  a  quick,  imperative  tone.  Tom,  who 
was  looking,  with  anxious  interest,  after  Emmeline,  as  she  went 
in,  noticed  this,  and  heard  Legree  answer,  angrily,  "  You  may 
hold  your  tongue  !  I  '11  do  as  I  please,  for  all  you  !  " 

Tom  heard  no  more  ;  for  he  was  soon  following  Sambo  to  the 
quarters.  The  quarters  was  a  little  sort  of  street  of  rude  shan 
ties,  in  a  row,  in  a  part  of  the  plantation,  far  off  from  the  house 
They  had  a  forlorn,  brutal,  forsaken  air.  Tom's  heart  sunk 


388  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

when  he  saw  them.  He  had  been  comforting  himself  with  the 
thought  of  a  cottage,  rude,  indeed,  but  one  which  he  might  make 
neat  and  quiet,  and  where  he  might  have  a  shelf  for  his  Bible, 
and  a  place  to  be  alone  out  of  his  laboring  hours.  He  looked 
into  several ;  they  were  mere  rude  shells,  destitute  of  any  species 
of  furniture,  except  a  heap  of  straw,  foul  with  dirt,  spread  con 
fusedly  over  the  floor,  which  was  merely  the  bare  ground,  trod 
den  hard  by  the  tramping  of  innumerable  feet. 

"  Which  of  these  will  be  mine  ?  "  said  he,  to  Sambo,  submis 
sively. 

"  Dunno ;  ken  turn  in  here,  I  s'pose,"  said  Sambo  ;  "  spects 
thar  's  room  for  another  thar ;  thar  's  a  pretty  smart  heap  o' 
niggers  to  each  on  'em,  now ;  sure,  I  dunno  what  I 's  to  do  with 
more." 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  the  weary  occupants  of  the 
shanties  came  flocking  home,  —  men  and  women,  in  soiled  and 
tattered  garments,  surly  and  uncomfortable,  and  in  no  mood  to 
look  pleasantly  on  new-comers.  The  small  village  was  alive  with 
no  inviting  sounds ;  hoarse,  guttural  voices  contending  at  the 
handmills  where  their  morsel  of  hard  corn  was  yet  to  be  ground 
into  meal,  to  fit  it  for  the  cake  that  was  to  constitute  their  only 
supper.  From  the  earliest  dawn  of  the  day,  they  had  been  in 
the  fields,  pressed  to  work  under  the  driving  lash  of  the  over 
seers  ;  for  it  was  now  in  the  very  heat  and  hurry  of  the  season, 
and  no  means  was  left  untried  to  press  every  one  up  to  the  top 
of  their  capabilities.  "True,"  says  the  negligent  lounger; 
"  picking  cotton  is  n't  hard  work."  Is  n't  it  ?  And  it  is  n't  much 
inconvenience,  either,  to  have  one  drop  of  water  fall  on  your 
head  ;  yet  the  worst  torture  of  the  inquisition  is  produced  by 
drop  after  drop,  drop  after  drop,  falling  moment  after  moment, 
with  monotonous  succession,  on  the  same  spot ;  and  work,  in 
itself  not  hard,  becomes  so,  by  being  pressed,  hour  after  hour, 
with  unvarying,  unrelenting  sameness,  with  not  even  the  con 
sciousness  of  free-will  to  take  from  its  tediousness.  Tom  looked 
in  vain  among  the  gang,  as  they  poured  along,  for  companionable 
faces.  He  saw  only  sullen,  scowling,  imbruted  men,  and  feeble, 
discouraged  women,  or  women  that  were  not  women,  —  the 
strong  pushing  away  the  weak,  —  the  gross,  unrestricted  animal 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  389 

selfishness  of  human  beings,  of  whom  nothing  good  was  expected 
and  desired  ;  and  who,  treated  in  every  way  like  brutes,  had 
sunk  as  nearly  to  their  level  as  it  was  possible  for  human  beings 
to  do.  To  a  late  hour  in  the  night  the  sound  of  the  grinding  was 
protracted ;  for  the  mills  were  few  in  number  compared  with  tbe 
grinders,  and  the  weary  and  feeble  ones  were  driven  back  by 
the  strong,  and  came  on  last  in  their  turn. 

"  Ho  yo ! "  said  Sambo,  coming  to  the  mulatto  woman,  and 
throwing  down  a  bag  of  corn  before  her ;  "  what  a  cuss  yo' 
name  ?  " 

"  Lucy,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Wai,  Lucy,  yo'  my  woman  now.  Yo'  grind  dis  yer  corn,  and 
get  my  supper  baked,  ye  har  ?  " 

"I  an't  your  woman,  and  I  won't  be  !  "  said  the  woman,  with 
the  sharp,  sudden  courage  of  despair  ;  "  you  go  'long  !  " 

"  I  11  kick  yo',  then  !  "  said  Sambo,  raising  his  foot  threaten 
ingly. 

"  Ye  may  kill  me,  if  ye  choose,  —  the  sooner  the  better ' 
Wish  't  I  was  dead  !  "  said  she. 

"  I  say,  Sambo,  you  go  to  spilin  the  hands,  I  '11  tell  Mas'r  o' 
you,"  said  Quimbo,  who  was  busy  at  the  mill,  from  which  he  had 
viciously  driven  two  or  three  tired  women,  who  were  waiting  to 
grind  their  corn. 

"  And  I  '11  tell  him  ye  won't  let  the  women  come  to  the  mills, 
yo'  old  nigger  !  "  said  Sambo.  "  Yo'  jes  keep  to  yo'  own  row." 

Tom  was  hungry  with  his  day's  journey,  and  almost  faint  for 
want  of  food. 

"  Thar,  yo' !  "  said  Quimbo,  throwing  down  a  coarse  bag, 
which  contained  a  peck  of  corn ;  "  thar,  nigger,  grab,  take  car* 
on 't,  —  yo'  won't  get  no  more,  dis  yer  week." 

Tom  waited  till  a  late  hour,  to  get  a  place  at  the  mills ;  and 
then,  moved  by  the  utter  weariness  of  two  women,  whom  he  saw 
trying  to  grind  their  corn  there,  he  ground  for  them,  put  to 
gether  the  decaying  brands  of  the  fire  where  many  had  baked 
cakes  before  them,  and  then  went  about  getting  his  own  supper. 
It  was  a  new  kind  of  work  there,  —  a  deed  of  charity,  small  as 
it  was  ;  but  it  woke  an  answering  touch  in  their  hearts,  —  an 
expression  of  womanly  kindness  came  over  their  hard  faces  ; 
they  mixed  his  cake  for  him,  and  tended  its  baking  ;  and  Tom 


390  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

sat  down  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  and  drew  out  his  Bible,  —  for 
he  had  need  of  comfort. 

"  What  's  that  ?  "  said  one  of  the  women. 

"A  Bible,"  said  Tom. 

"  Good  Lord  !  han't  seen  un  since  I  was  in  Kentuck." 

"  Was  you  raised  in  Kentuck  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  interest. 

"  Yes,  and  well  raised,  too ;  never  spected  to  come  to  dis 
yer  !  "  said  the  woman,  sighing. 

"  What  's  dat  ar  book,  any  way  ?  "  said  the  other  woman. 

"  Why,  the  Bible."     , 

"  Laws  a  me  !  what  's  dat  ?  "  said  the  woman. 

"  Do  tell !  you  never  hearn  on  't  ?  "  said  the  other  woman0 
"  I  used  to  har  Missis  a  readin'  on  't,  sometimes,  in  Kentuck ; 
but,  laws  o'  me !  we  don't  har  nothin'  here  but  crackin'  and 
swarin'." 

"  Read  a  piece,  anyways !  "  said  the  first  woman,  curiously, 
seeing  Tom  attentively  poring  over  it. 

Tom  read,  —  "  Come  unto  ME,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

"  Them  's  good  words  enough,"  said  the  woman  ;  "  who  says 
'em  ?  " 

"The  Lord,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  jest  wish  I  know'd  whar  to  find  him,"  said  the  woman. 
"  I  would  go  ;  'pears  like  I  never  should  get  rested  agin.  My 
flesh  is  fairly  sore,  and  I  tremble  all  over,  every  day,  and 
Sambo  's  allers  a  jawin'  at  me,  'cause  I  does  n't  pick  faster  ;  and 
nights  it  's  most  midnight  'fore  I  can  get  my  supper  ;  and  den 
'pears  like  I  don't  turn  over  and  shut  my  eyes,  'fore  I  hear  de 
horn  blow  to  get  up,  and  at  it  agin  in  de  mornin'.  If  I  knew 
whar  de  Lord  was,  I  'd  tell  him." 

"  He  's  here,  he  's  everywhere,"  said  Tom. 

"  Lor,  you  ain't  gwine  to  make  me  believe  dat  ar  !  I  know 
de  Lord  an't  here,"  said  the  woman  ;  "  't  an't  no  use  talking, 
though.  I 's  jest  gwine  to  camp  down,  and  sleep  while  I  ken." 

The  women  went  off  to  their  cabins,  and  Tom  sat  alone,  by 
the  smouldering  fire,  that  flickered  up  redly  in  his  face. 

The  silver,  fair-browed  moon  rose  in  the  purple  sky,  and 
looked  down,  calm  and  silent,  as  God  looks  on  the  scene  of 
misery  and  oppression,  —  looked  calmly  on  the  lone  black  man, 
as  he  sat,  with  his  arms  folded,  and  his  Bible  on  his  knee. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY,  391 

"  Is  God  HERE  ? "  Ah,  how  is  it  possible  for  the  untaught 
heart  to  keep  its  faith,  unswerving,  in  the  face  of  dire  misrule, 
and  palpable,  unrebuked  injustice  ?  In  that  simple  heart  waged 
a  fierce  conflict :  the  crushing  sense  of  wrong,  the  foreshadow 
ing  of  a  whole  life  of  future  misery,  the  wreck  of  all  past 
hopes,  mournfully  tossing  in  the  soul's  sight,  like  dead  corpses 
of  wife,  and  child,  and  friend,  rising  from  the  dark  wave,  and 
surging  in  the  face  of  the  half-drowned  mariner !  Ah,  was  it 
easy  here  to  believe  and  hold  fast  the  great  password  of  Chris 
tian  faith,  "  that  God  is,  and  is  the  REWARDER  of  them  that  dil 
igently  seek  him  "  ? 

Tom  rose,  disconsolate,  and  stumbled  into  the  cabin  that  had 
been  allotted  to  him.  The  floor  was  already  strewn  with  weary 
sleepers,  and  the  foul  air  of  the  place  almost  repelled  him ;  but 
the  heavy  night -dews  were  chill,  and  his  limbs  weary,  and, 
wrapping  about  him  a  tattered  blanket,  which  formed  his  only 
bed-clothing,  he  stretched  himself  in  the  straw  and  fell  asleep. 

In  dreams,  a  gentle  voice  came  over  his  ear ;  he  was  sitting 
on  the  mossy  seat  in  the  garden  by  Lake  Pontchartrain,  and 
Eva,  with  her  serious  eyes  bent  downward,  was  reading  to  him 
from  the  Bible  ;  arid  he  heard  her  read,  — 

"  When  thou  passest  through  the  waters,  I  will  be  with  thee, 
and  the  rivers  they  shall  not  overflow  thee  ;  when  thou  walkest 
through  the  fire,  thou  shalt  not  be  burned,  neither  shall  the 
flame  kindle  upon  thee  ;  for  I  am  the  Lord  thy  God,  the  Holy 
One  of  Israel,  thy  Saviour." 

Gradually  the  words  seemed  to  melt  and  fade,  as  in  a  divine 
music  ;  the  child  raised  her  deep  eyes,  and  fixed  them  lovingly 
on  him,  and  rays  of  warmth  and  comfort  seemed  to  go  from 
them  to  his  heart ;  and,  as  if  wafted  on  the  music,  she  seemed 
to  rise  on  shining  wings,  from  which  flakes  and  spangles  of  gold 
fell  off  like  stars,  and  she  was  gone. 

Tom  woke.  Was  it  a  dream  ?  Let  it  pass  for  one.  But 
who  shall  say  that  that  sweet  young  spirit,  which  in  life  so 
yearned  to  comfort  and  console  the  distressed,  was  forbidden  of 
God  to  assume  this  ministry  after  death  ? 

"It  is  a  beautiful  belief, 

That  ever  round  our  head 

Are  hovering,  on  angel  -wingg 

The  spirits  of  the  dead." 


392  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

CASSY. 

{:  And  behold,  the  tears  of  such  as  were  oppressed,  and  they  had  no  comforter  ;  and 
on  the  side  of  their  oppressors  there  was  power,  but  they  had  no  comforter. "  —  Ecd. 
iv.  1. 

IT  took  but  a  short  time  to  familiarize  Tom  with  all  that  was 
to  be  hoped  or  feared  in  his  new  way  of  life.  He  was  an  ex 
pert  and  efficient  workman  in  whatever  he  undertook,  and  was, 
both  from  habit  and  principle,  prompt  and  faithful.  Quiet  and 
peaceable  in  his  disposition,  he  hoped,  by  unremitting  diligence, 
to  avert  from  himself  at  least  a  portion  of  the  evils  of  his  con 
dition.  He  saw  enough  of  abuse  and  misery  to  make  him  sick 
and  weary ;  but  he  determined  to  toil  on,  with  religious  pa 
tience,  committing  himself  to  Him  that  judgeth  righteously,  not 
without  hope  that  some  way  of  escape  might  yet  be  opened  to 
him. 

Legree  took  silent  note  of  Tom's  availability.  He  rated  hi  ;n 
as  a  first-class  hand  ;  and  yet  he  felt  a  secret  dislike  to  him,  — 
the  native  antipathy  of  bad  to  good.  He  saw,  plainly,  that 
when,  as  was  often  the  case,  his  violence  and  brutality  fell  on 
the  helpless,  Tom  took  notice  of  it ;  for  so  subtle  is  the  atmos 
phere  of  opinion,  that  it  will  make  itself  felt,  without  words ; 
and  the  opinion  even  of  a  slave  may  annoy  a  master.  Tom  in 
various  ways  manifested  a  tenderness  of  feeling,  a  commisera 
tion  for  his  fellow-sufferers,  strange  and  new  to  then,  which 
was  watched  with  a  jealous  eye  by  Legree.  He  had  purchased 
Tom  with  a  view  of  eventually  making  him  a  sort  of  overseer, 
with  whom  he  might,  at  times,  intrust  his  affairs,  in  short  ab 
sences  ;  and,  in  his  view,  the  first,  second,  and  third  requisite 
for  that  place  was  hardness.  Legree  made  up  his  mind,  that,  as 
Tom  was  not  hard  to  his  hand,  he  would  harden  him  forthwith ; 
And  some  few  weeks  after  Tom  had  been  on  the  place,  he 
aained  to  commence  the  process. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  393 

One  morning,  when  the  hands  were  mustered  for  the  field, 
Tom  noticed,  with  surprise,  a  new-comer  among  them,  whose 
appearance  excited  his  attention.  It  was  a  woman,  tall  and 
slenderly  formed,  with  remarkably  delicate  hands  and  feet,  and 
dressed  in  neat  and  respectable  garments.  By  the  appearance 
of  her  face,  she  might  have  been  between  thirty-five  and  forty ; 
and  it  was  a  face  that,  once  seen,  could  never  be  forgotten,  — 
one  of  those  that,  at  a  glance,  seem  to  convey  to  us  an  idea 
of  a  wild,  painful,  and  romantic  history.  Her  forehead  was 
high,  and  her  eyebrows  marked  with  beautiful  clearness.  Her 
straight,  well-formed  nose,  her  finely  cut  mouth,  and  the  grace 
ful  contour  of  her  head  and  neck,  showed  that  she  must  once 
have  been  beautiful ;  but  her  face  was  deeply  wrinkled  with 
lines  of  pain,  and  of  proud  and  bitter  endurance.  Her  com 
plexion  was  sallow  and  unhealthy,  her  cheeks  thin,  her  features 
sharp,  and  her  whole  form  emaciated.  But  her  eye  was  the 
most  remarkable  feature,  —  so  large,  so  heavily  black,  overshad 
owed  by  long  lashes  of  equal  darkness,  and  so  wildly,  mourn 
fully  despairing.  There  was  a  fierce  pride  and  defiance  in 
every  line  of  her  face,  in  every  curve  of  the  flexible  lip,  in  every 
motion  of  her  body  ;  but  in  her  eye  was  a  deep,  settled  night  of 
anguish,  —  an  expression  so  hopeless  and  unchanging  as  to  con 
trast  fearfully  with  the  scorn  and  pride  expressed  by  her  whole 
demeanor. 

Where  she  came  from,  or  who  she  was,  Tom  did  not  know. 
The  first  he  did  know,  she  was  walking  by  his  side,  erect  and 
proud,  in  the  dim  gray  of  the  dawn.  To  the  gang,  however,  she 
was  known  ;  for  there  was  much  looking  and  turning  of  heads, 
and  a  smothered  yet  apparent  exultation  among  the  miserable, 
ragged,  half-starved  creatures  by  whom  she  was  surrounded. 

"  Got  to  come  to  it,  at  last,  —  glad  of  it !  "  said  one. 

"  He  !  he  !  he  !  "  said  another  ;  "  you  '11  know  how  good  it  is, 
Misse ! " 

"We '11  see  her  work!" 

"  Wonder  if  she  11  get  a  cutting  up,  at  night,  like  the  rest  of 
us  !  " 

"  I  'd  be  glad  to  see  her  down  for  a  flogging,  I  '11  bound  ! " 
said  another. 

The  woman  took  no  notice  of  these  taunts,  but  walked  on,  with 


394  UNCLE    TOM'S  CABIN;   OR, 

the  same  expression  of  angry  scorn,  as  if  she  heard  nothing 
Tom  had  always  lived  among  refined  and  cultivated  people,  and 
he  felt  intuitively,  from  her  air  and  bearing,  that  she  belonged 
to  that  class ;  but  how  or  why  she  could  be  fallen  to  those  de 
grading  circumstances,  he  could  not  tell.  The  woman  neither 
looked  at  him  nor  spoke  to  him,  though,  all  the  way  to  the  field, 
she  kept  close  at  his  side. 

Tom  was  soon  busy  at  his  work  ;  but,  as  the  woman  was  at  no 
great  distance  from  him,  he  often  glanced  an  eye  to  her,  at  her 
work.  He  saw,  at  a  glance,  that  a  native  adroitness  and  handi- 
ness  made  the  task  to  her  an  easier  one  than  it  proved  to  many. 
She  picked  very  fast  and  very  clean,  and  with  an  air  of  scorn, 
as  if  she  despised  both  the  work  and  the  disgrace  and  humilia 
tion  of  the  circumstances  in  which  she  was  placed. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  Tom  was  working  near  the  mulatto 
woman  who  had  been  bought  in  the  same  lot  with  himself.  She 
was  evidently  in  a  condition  of  great  suffering,  and  Tom  often 
heard  her  praying,  as  she  wavered  and  trembled,  and  seemed 
about  to  fall  down.  Tom  silently,  as  he  came  near  to  her,  trans 
ferred  several  handfuls  of  cotton  from  his  own  sack  to  hers. 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't !  "  said  the  woman,  looking  surprised  ; 
"  it  '11  get  you  into  trouble." 

Just  then  Sambo  came  up.  He  seemed  to  have  a  special 
spite  against  this  woman  ;  and,  flourishing  his  whip,  said,  in 
brutal,  guttural  tones,  u  What  dis  yer,  Luce,  —  foolin'  a'  ?  "  and, 
with  the  word,  kicking  the  woman  with  his  heavy  cowhide  shoe, 
he  struck  Tom  across  the  face  with  his  whip. 

Tom  silently  resumed  his  task  ;  but  the  woman,  before  at  the 
last  point  of  exhaustion,  fainted. 

"  I  '11  bring  her  to !  "  said  the  driver,  with  a  brutal  grin. 
"  I  '11  give  her  something  better  than  camphire  !  "  and,  taking  a 
pin  from  his  coat-sleeve,  he  buried  it  to  the  head  in  her  flesh. 
The  woman  groaned,  and  half  rose.  "  Get  up,  you  beast,  and 
work,  will  yer,  or  I  '11  show  yer  a  trick  more !  " 

The  woman  seemed  stimulated,  for  a  few  moments,  to  an  un- 
natural  strength,  and  worked  with  desperate  eagerness. 

"  See  that  you  keep  to  dat  ar,"  said  the  man,  "  or  yer  '11  wish 
yer  's  dead  to-night,  I  reckin  !  " 

"  That  I  do  now  !  "  Tom  heard  her  say  ;  and  again  he  heard 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  395 

her  say,  "O   Lord,  how  long!     O  Lord,   why  don't  you  help 


us  : 


At  the  risk  of  all  that  he  might  suffer,  Tom  came  forward 
again,  and  put  all  the  cotton  in  his  sack  into  the  woman's. 

"  Oh,  you  must  n't !  you  donno  what  they  '11  do  to  ye  !  "  said 
the  woman. 

"  I  can  bar  it !  "  said  Tom,  "  better  'n  you ;  "  and  he  was  at 
his  place  again.  It  passed  in  a  moment. 

Suddenly,  the  stranger  woman  whom  we  have  described,  and 
who  had,  in  the  course  of  her  work,  come  near  enough  to  hear 
Tom's  last  words,  raised  her  heavy  black  eyes,  and  fixed  them, 
for  a  second,  on  him  ;  then,  taking  a  quantity  of  cotton  from  hei 
basket,  she  placed  it  in  his. 

"  You  know  nothing  about  this  place,"  she  said,  "  or  you 
would  n't  have  done  that.  When  you  Ve  been  here  a  month, 
you  '11  be  done  helping  anybody ;  you  '11  find  it  hard  enough  to 
take  care  of  your  own  skin  !  " 

"  The  Lord  forbid,  Missis  !  "  said  Tom,  using  instinctively  to 
his  field  companion  the  respectful  form  proper  to  the  high-bred 
with  whom  he  had  lived. 

"  The  Lord  never  visits  these  parts,"  said  the  woman,  bitterly, 
as  she  went  nimbly  forward  with  her  work ;  and  again  the 
scornful  smile  curled  her  lips. 

But  the  action  of  the  woman  had  been  seen  by  the  driver, 
across  the  field  ;  and  flourishing  his  whip,  he  came  up  to  her. 

"  What !  what !  "  he  said  to  the  woman,  with  an  air  of  tri 
umph,  "  YOU  a  foolin'  ?  Go  along !  yer  under  me  now,  —  mind 
yourself,  or  yer  '11  cotch  it !  " 

A  glance  like  sheet-lightning  suddenly  flashed  from  those 
black  eyes  ;  and,  facing  about,  with  quivering  lip  and  dilated 
nostrils,  she  drew  herself  up,  and  fixed  a  glance,  blazing  with 
rage  and  scorn,  on  the  driver. 

"Dog!"  she  said,  "touch  me,  if  you  dare!  I've  power 
enough,  yet,  to  have  you  torn  by  the  dogs,  burnt  alive,  cut  to 
inches  1  I  Ve  only  to  say  the  word  !  " 

"  What  de  devil  you  here  for,  den !  "  said  the  man.  evidently 
cowed,  and  sullenly  retreating  a  step  or  two.  "  Did  n't  mean 
ao  harm,  Misse  Gassy !  " 

"  Keep   your   distance,   then .' "   said    the  woman.     And,  w 


396  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

truth,  the  man  seemed  greatly  inclined  to  attend  to  something 
at  the  other  end  of  the  field,  and  started  off  in  quick  time. 

The  woman  suddenly  turned  to  her  work,  and  labored  with  a 
dispatch  that  was  perfectly  astonishing  to  Tom.  She  seemed 
to  work  by  magic.  Before  the  day  was  through,  her  basket  was 
filled,  crowded  down,  and  piled,  and  she  had  several  times  put 
largely  into  Tom's.  Long  after  dusk,  the  whole  weary  train, 
with  their  baskets  on  their  heads,  defiled  up  to  the  building  ap 
propriated  to  the  storing  and  weighing  the  cotton.  Legree  was 
there,  busily  conversing  with  the  two  drivers. 

"  Dat  ar  Tom  's  gwine  to  make  a  powerful  deal  o'  trouble  ; 
kept  a  puttin'  into  Lucy's  basket.  —  One  o'  these  yer  dat  will 
get  all  der  niggers  to  feelin'  'bused,  if  Mas'r  don't  watch  him !  " 
said  Sambo. 

"  Hey-dey  !  The  black  cuss  !  "  said  Legree.  "  He  '11  have 
to  get  a  breakin'  in,  won't  he,  boys  ?  " 

Both  negroes  grinned  a  horrid  grin  at  this  intimation. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  let  Mas'r  Legree  alone,  for  breakin'  in !  De  debil 
heself  couldn't  beat  Mas'r  at  dat!  "  said  Quimbo. 

"  Wai,  boys,  the  best  way  is  to  give  him  the  flogging  to  do, 
till  he  gets  over  his  notions.  Break  him  in !  " 

"  Lord,  Mas'r  '11  have  hard  work  to  get  dat  out  o'  him  !  " 

"  It  '11  have  to  come  out  of  him,  though !  "  said  Legree,  as  he 
rolled  his  tobacco  in  his  mouth. 

"  Now,  dar  's  Lucy,  —  de  aggravatinest,  ugliest  wench  on  de 
place!  "  pursued  Sambo. 

"  Take  care,  Sam  ;  I  shall  begin  to  think  what 's  the  reason 
for  your  spite  agin  Lucy." 

"Well,  Mas'r  knows  she  sot  herself  up  agin  Mas'r,  and 
would  n't  have  me,  when  he  telled  her  to." 

"  I  'd  a  flogged  her  into  't,"  said  Legree,  spitting,  "  only 
there  's  such  a  press  o'  work,  it  don't  seem  wuth  a  while  to  up 
set  her  jist  now.  She  's  slender  ;  but  these  yer  slender  gals  will 
bear  half  killin'  to  get  their  own  way  !  " 

"  Wai,  Lucy  was  real  aggravatin'  and  lazy,  sulkin'  round  ; 
would  n't  do  nothing  —  and  Tom  he  tuck  up  for  her." 

"  He  did,  eh !  Wai,  then,  Tom  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
flogging  her.  It  '11  be  a  good  practice  for  him,  and  he  won't 
put  it  on  to  the  gal  like  you  devils,  neither." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  897 

"  Ho,  ho  I  haw !  haw !  haw !  "  laughed  both  the  sooty 
wretches  ;  and  the  diabolical  sounds  seemed,  in  truth,  a  not 
unapt  expression  of  the  fiendish  character  which  Legree  gave 
them. 

"  Wai,  but,  Mas'r,  Tom  and  Misse  Cassy,  and  dey  among 
'em,  filled  Lucy's  basket.  I  ruther  guess  der  weight 's  in  it, 
Mas'r  !  " 

"  /  do  the  weighing  !  "  said  Legree,  emphatically. 

Both  the  drivers  laughed  again  their  diabolical  laugh. 

"  So  !  "  he  added,  "  Misse  Cassy  did  her  day's  work." 

"  She  picks  like  de  debil  and  all  his  angels  ! " 

"  She  's  got  'em  all  in  her,  I  believe  !  "  said  Legree ;  and 
growling  a  brutal  oath,  he  proceeded  to  the  weighing-room. 

Slowly  the  weary,  dispirited  creatures  wound  their  way  into 
the  room,  and,  with  crouching  reluctance,  presented  their  bas 
kets  to  be  weighed. 

Legree  noted  on  a  slate,  on  the  side  of  which  was  pasted  a 
list  of  names,  the  amount. 

Tom's  basket  was  weighed  and  approved  ;  and  he  looked, 
with  an  anxious  glance,  for  the  success  of  the  woman  he  had  be 
friended. 

Tottering  with  weakness,  she  came  forward,  and  delivered 
her  basket.  It  was  of  full  weight,  as  Legree  well  perceived ; 
but,  affecting  anger,  he  said,  — 

"  What,  you  lazy  beast !  short  again  !  stand  aside,  you  '11 
catch  it,  pretty  soon  !  " 

The  woman  gave  a  groan  of  utter  despair,  and  sat  down  on  a 
board. 

The  person  who  had  been  called  Misse  Cassy  now  came  for 
ward,  and,  with  a  haughty,  negligent  air,  (Jplivered  her  basket. 
As  she  delivered  it,  Legree  looked  in  her  eyes  with  a  sneering 
yet  inquiring  glance. 

She  fixed  her  black  eyes  steadily  on  him,  her  lips  moved 
slightly,  and  she  said  something  in  French.  What  it  was,  no 
one  knew ;  but  Legrce's  face  became  perfectly  demoniacal  in 
its  expression,  as  she  spoke  ;  he  half  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
strike,  —  a  gesture  which  she  regarded  with  fierce  disdain,  as 
she  turned  and  walked  away. 


398  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OB, 

"  And  now,"  said  Legree,  "  come  here,  you  Tom.  You  see, 
I  telled  ye  I  did  n't  buy  ye  jest  for  the  common  work ;  I  mean 
to  promote  ye,  and  make  a  driver  of  ye  ;  and  to-night  ye  may 
jest  as  well  begin  to  get  yer  hand  in.  Now,  ye  jest  take  this 
yer  gal  and  flog  her  ;  ye  've  seen  enough  on  't  to  know  how." 

"  I  beg  Mas'r's  pardon,"  said  Tom  ;  "  hopes  Mas'r  won't  set 
me  at  that.  It 's  what  I  an't  used  to,  —  never  did,  —  and  can't 
do,  no  way  possible." 

"  Ye  '11  larn  a  pretty  smart  chance  of  things  ye  never  did 
know,  before  I  've  done  with  ye  !  "  said  Legree,  taking  up  a 
cowhide,  and  striking  Tom  a  heavy  blow  across  the  cheek,  and 
following  up  the  infliction  by  a  shower  of  blows. 

"  There  !  "  he  said,  as  he  stopped  to  rest ;  "  now  will  ye  tell 
me  ye  can't  do  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  putting  up  his  hand,  to  wipe  the 
blood  that  trickled  down  his  face.  "  I  'm  willin'  to  work  night 
and  day,  and  work  while  there  's  life  and  breath  in  me  ;  but 
this  yer  thing  I  can't  feel  it  right  to  do ;  and,  Mas'r,  I  never 
shall  do  it,  —  never  !  " 

Tom  had  a  remarkably  smooth,  soft  voice,  and  a  habitually 
respectful  manner,  that  had  given  Legree  an  idea  that  he  would 
be  cowardly,  and  easily  subdued.  When  he  spoke  these  last 
words,  a  thrill  of  amazement  went  through  every  one ;  the  poor 
woman  clasped  her  hands,  and  said,  "  O  Lord  !  "  and  every 
one  involuntarily  looked  at  each  other,  and  drew  in  their  breath, 
as  if  to  prepare  for  the  storm  that  was  about  to  burst. 

Legree  looked  stupefied  and  confounded  ;  but  at  last  burst 
forth,  — 

"  What !  ye  blasted  black  beast !  tell  me  ye  don't  think  it 
right  to  do  what  I  tell  ye  !  What  have  any  of  you  cussed 
cattle  to  do  with  thinking  what 's  right  ?  1 11  put  a  stop  to  it ! 
Why,  what  do  ye  think  ye  are  ?  May  be  ye  think  ye  're  a  gen 
tleman,  master  Tom,  to  be  a  telling  your  master  what 's  right, 
and  what  an't !  So  you  pretend  it 's  wrong  to  flog  the  gal !  " 

"  I  think  so,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom  ;  "  the  poor  crittur  's  sick  and 
feeble  ;  't  would  be  downright  cruel,  and  it 's  what  I  never  will 
do,  nor  begin  to.  Mas'r,  if  you  mean  to  kill  me,  kill  me  ;  but, 
as  to  my  raising  my  hand  agin  any  one  here,  I  never  shall,  — • 
I'll  die  first!" 


UFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY, 

Tom  spoke  in  a  mild  voice,  but  with  a  decision  that  could  not 
be  mistaken.  Legree  shook  with  anger ;  his  greenish  eyes 
glared  fiercely,  and  his  very  whiskers  seemed  to  curl  with  pas 
sion  ;  but,  like  some  ferocious  beast,  that  plays  with  its  victim 
before  he  devours  it,  he  kept  back  his  strong  impulse  to  proceed 
to  immediate  violence,  and  broke  out  into  bitter  raillery. 

"  Well,  here  's  a  pious  dog,  at  last,  let  down  among  us  sin 
ners  !  —  a  saint,  a  gentleman,  and  no  less,  to  talk  to  us  sinners 
about  our  sins !  Powerful  holy  crittur,  he  must  be  !  Here,  you 
rascal,  you  make  believe  to  be  so  pious,  —  did  n't  you  never 
hear,  out  of  yer  Bible,  *  Servants,  obey  yer  masters  '  ?  An't  I 
yer  master  ?  Did  n't  I  pay  down  twelve  hundred  dollars,  cash, 
for  all  there  is  inside  yer  old  cussed  black  shell  ?  An't  yer 
2nine,  now,  body  and  soul  ?  "  he  said,  giving  Tom  a  violent  kick 
with  his  heavy  boot ;  "  tell  me  !  " 

In  the  very  depth  of  physical  suffering,  bowed  by  brutal  op 
pression,  this  question  shot  a  gleam  of  joy  and  triumph  through 
Tom's  soul.  He  suddenly  stretched  himself  up,  and,  looking 
earnestly  to  heaven,  while  the  tears  and  blood  that  flowed  down 
his  face  mingled,  he  exclaimed,  — 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  my  soul  an't  yours,  Mas'r  !  You  have  n't 
bought  it,  —  ye  can't  buy  it !  It 's  been  bought  and  paid  for, 
by  one  that  is  able  to  keep  it ;  —  no  matter,  no  matter,  you 
can't  harm  me  !  " 

" I  can't !  'J  said  Legree,  with  a  sneer;  "we'll  see,  —  we'll 
see !  Here,  Sambo,  Quimbo,  give  this  dog  such  a  breakin'  in 
as  he  won't  get  over,  this  month  !  " 

The  two  gigantic  negroes  that  now  laid  hold  of  Tom,  with 
fiendish  exultation  in  their  faces,  might  have  formed  no  unapt 
personification  of  the  powers  of  darkness.  The  poor  woman 
screamed  with  apprehension,  and  all  rose,  as  by  a  general  im 
pulse,  while  they  dragged  him  unresisting  from  the  place. 


400  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN:  OR. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  QUADROON'S  STOKY. 

"  And  behold  the  tears  of  such  as  are  oppressed  ;  and  on  the  side  of  their  oppressors 
there  was  power.  Wherefore  I  praised  the  dead  that  are  already  dead  more  than  the 
living  that  are  yet  alive."  —  Ecd.  iv.  1. 

IT  was  late  at  night,  and  Tom  lay  groaning  and  bleeding 
alone,  in  »n  old  forsaken  room  of  the  gin-house,  among  pieces 
of  broken  machinery,  piles  of  damaged  cotton,  and  other  rub 
bish  which  had  there  accumulated. 

The  night  was  damp  and  close,  and  the  thick  air  swarmed 
with  myriads  of  mosquitoes,  which  increased  the  restless  torture 
of  his  wounds ;  whilst  a  burning  thirst  —  a  torture  beyond  all 
others  —  filled  up  the  uttermost  measure  of  physical  anguish. 

"  0  good  Lord  !  Do  look  down,  —  give  me  the  victory  !  — 
give  me  the  victory  over  all !  "  prayed  poor  Tom,  in  his  an 
guish. 

A  footstep  entered  the  room,  behind  him,  and  the  light  of  a 
lantern  flashed  on  his  eyes. 

"  Who  's  there  ?  Oh,  for  the  Lord's  massy,  please  give  me 
some  water !  " 

The  woman  Gassy  —  for  it  was  she  —  set  down  her  lantern, 
and,  pouring  water  from  a  bottle,  raised  his  head,  and  gave  him 
drink.  Another  and  another  cup  were  drained,  with  feverish 
eagerness. 

"  Drink  all  ye  want,"  she  said ;  "  I  knew  how  it  would  be. 
It  is  n't  the  first  time  I  've  been  out  in  the  night,  carrying  watei 
to  such  as  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Missis,"  said  Tom,  when  he  had  done  drinking. 

"  Don't  call  me  Missis  !  I  'm  a  miserable  slave,  like  your- 
self,  —  a  lower  one  than  you  can  ever  be  !  "  said  she,  bitterly ; 
"  but  now,"  said  she,  going  to  the  door,  and  dragging  in  a  small 
pallaise,  over  which  she  had  spread  linen  cloths  wet  with  cold 
water,  "  try,  my  poor  fellow,  to  roll  yourself  on  to  this." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  401 

Stiff  with  wounds  and  bruises,  Tom  was  a  long  time  in  accom 
plishing  this  movement;  but,  when  done,  he  felt  a  sensible 
relief  from  the  cooling  application  to  his  wounds. 

The  woman,  whom  long  practice  with  the  victims  of  brutality 
had  made  familiar  with  many  healing  arts,  went  on  to  make 
many  applications  to  Tom's  wounds,  by  means  of  which  he  was 
soon  somewhat  relieved. 

"  Now,"  said  the  woman,  when  she  had  raised  his  head  on  a 
roll  of  damaged  cotton,  which  served  for  a  pillow,  "  there 's  the 
best  I  can  do  for  you." 

Tom  thanked  her;  and  the  woman,  sitting  down  on  the 
floor,  drew  up  her  knees,  and  embracing  them  with  her  arms; 
looked  fixedly  before  her,  with  a  bitter  and  painful  expres 
sion  of  countenance.  Her  bonnet  fell  back,  and  long  wavy 
streams  of  black  hair  fell  around  her  singular  and  melancholy 
face. 

"  It 's  no  use,  my  poor  fellow  !  "  she  broke  out,  at  last,  "  it 's 
of  no  use,  this  you  've  been  trying  to  do.  You  were  a  brave 
fellow,  —  you  had  the  right  on  your  side  ;  but  it 's  all  in  vain, 
and  out  of  the  question,  for  you  to  struggle.  You  are  in  the 
devil's  hands  ;  —  he  is  the  strongest,  and  you  must  give  up  !" 

Give  up !  and  had  not  human  weakness  and  physical  agony 
whispered  that,  before  ?  Tom  started  ;  for  the  bitter  woman, 
with  her  wild  eyes  and  melancholy  voice,  seemed  to  him  an 
embodiment  of  the  temptation  with  which  he  had  been  wrest 
ling. 

"  O  Lord !  O  Lord !  "  he  groaned,  "  how  can  I  give  up  ?  " 

"  There 's  no  use  calling  on  the  Lord,  —  he  never  hears," 
said  the  woman,  steadily  ;  "  there  is  n't  any  God,  I  believe  ;  or, 
if  there  is,  he 's  taken  sides  against  us.  All  goes  against  us, 
heaven  and  earth.  Everything  is  pushing  us  into  hell.  Why 
should  n't  we  go  ?  " 

Tom  closed  his  eyes,  and  shuddered  at  the  dark,  atheistic 
words. 

"You  see,"  said  the  woman,  "you  don't  know  anything 
about  it ;  —  I  do.  I  've  been  on  this  place  five  years,  body  and 
soul,  under  this  man's  foot ;  and  I  hate  him  as  I  do  the  devil ! 
Here  you  are,  on  a  lone  plantation,  ten  miles  from  any  other, 
in  the  swamps  ;  not  a  white  person  here,  who  could  testify,  if 


402  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

you  were  burned  alive,  —  if  you  were  scalded,  cut  into  inch- 
pieces,  set  up  for  the  dogs  to  tear,  or  hung  up  and  whipped  to 
death.  There  's  no  law  here,  of  God  or  man,  that  can  do  you, 
or  any  one  of  us,  the  least  good ;  and,  this  man !  there 's  no 
earthly  thing  that  he  's  too  good  to  do.  I  could  make  any 
one's  hair  rise,  and  their  teeth  chatter,  if  I  should  only  tell 
what  I  've  seen  and  heen  knowing  to,  here,  —  and  it  's  no  use 
resisting !  Did  I  want  to  live  with  him  ?  Was  n't  I  a  woman 
delicately  bred ;  and  he  —  God  in  heaven !  what  was  he,  and 
is  he  ?  And  yet,  I  've  lived  with  him,  these  five  years,  and 
cursed  every  moment  of  my  life,  —  night  and  day !  And  now, 
he  's  got  a  new  one,  —  a  young  thing,  only  fifteen,  and  she 
brought  up,  she  says,  piously.  Her  good  mistress  taught  her 
to  read  the  Bible  ;  and  she  's  brought  her  Bible  here  —  to  hell 
| with  her  !  "  —  and  the  woman  laughed  a  wild  and  doleful 
laugh,  that  rung,  with  a  strange,  supernatural  sound,  through 
the  old  ruined  shed. 

Tom  folded  his  hands ;  all  was  darkness  and  horror. 

"  O  Jesus !  Lord  Jesus !  have  you  quite  forgot  us  poor  crit- 
turs  ?  "  burst  forth,  at  last ;  —  "  help,  Lord,  I  perish !  " 

The  woman  sternly  continued  :  — 

"  And  what  are  these  miserable  low  dogs  you  work  with, 
that  you  should  suffer  on  their  account  ?  Every  one  of  them 
would  turn  against  you,  the  first  time  they  got  a  chance.  They 
are  all  of  'em  as  low  and  cruel  to  each  other  as  they  can  be ; 
there  's  no  use  in  your  suffering  to  keep  from  hurting  them." 

"  Poor  critturs  !  "  said  Tom,  —  "  what  made  'em  cruel?  — 
and,  if  I  give  out,  I  shall  get  used  to  %  and  grow,  little  by 
little,  just  like  'em  !  No,  no,  Missis  !  I  Ve  lost  everything,  - 
wife,  and  children,  and  home,  and  a  kind  Mas'r,  —  and  he 
would  have  set  me  free,  if  he  'd  only  lived  a  week  longer  ;  I  've 
lost  everything  in  this  world,  and  it 's  clean  gone,  forever,  — 
and  now  I  can't  lose  heaven,  too ;  no,  I  can't  get  to  be  wicked, 
besides  all!  " 

"  But  it  can't  be  that  the  Lord  will  lay  sin  to  our  account," 
said  the  woman  ;  "  he  won't  charge  it  to  us,  when  we  're  forced 
to  it ;  he  '11  charge  it  to  them  that  drove  us  to  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Tom;  "but  that  won't  keep  us  from  growing 
wicked.  If  I  get  to  be  as  hard-hearted  as  that  ar  Sambo,  and 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  403 

as  wicked,  it  won't  make  much  odds  to  me  how  I  come  so ;  it 's 
the  bein'  so,  —  that  ar  's  what  I  'm  a  dreadin'." 

The  woman  fixed  a  wild  and  startled  look  on  Tom,  as  if  a 
new  thought  had  struck  her  ;  and  then,  heavily  groaning,  said,  — 

"  O  God  a'  mercy  !  you  speak  the  truth  !  Oh  !  —  Oh  !  — 
Qh !  "  —  and,  with  groans,  she  fell  on  the  floor,  like  one  crushed 
and  writhing  under  the  extremity  of  mental  anguish. 

There  was  a  silence,  awhile,  in  which  the  breathing  of  both 
parties  could  be  heard,  when  Tom  faintly  said,  "  Oh,  please, 
Missis !  " 

The  woman  suddenly  rose  up,  with  her  face  composed  to  its 
usual  stern,  melancholy  expression. 

"  Please,  Missis,  I  saw  'em  throw  my  coat  in  that  ar'  corner, 
and  in  my  coat-pocket  is  my  Bible ;  —  if  Missis  would  please 
get  it  for  me." 

Gassy  went  and  got  it.  Tom  opened,  at  once,  to  a  heavily 
marked  passage,  much  worn,  of  the  last  scenes  in  the  life  of 
Him  by  whose  stripes  we  are  healed. 

"  If  Missis  would  only  be  so  good  as  read  that  ar',  —  it 's 
better  than  water." 

Gassy  took  the  book,  with  a  dry,  proud  air,  and  looked  over 
the  passage.  She  then  read  aloud,  in  a  soft  voice,  and  with  a 
beauty  of  intonation  that  was  peculiar,  that  touching  account 
of  anguish  and  of  glory.  Often,  as  she  read,  her  voice  faltered, 
and  sometimes  failed  her  altogether,  when  she  would  stop,  with 
an  air  of  frigid  composure,  till  she  had  mastered  herself.  When 
she  came  to  the  touching  words,  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do,"  she  threw  down  the  book,  and,  burying 
her  face  in  the  heavy  masses  of  her  hair,  she  sobbed  aloud,  with 
a  convulsive  violence. 

Tom  was  weeping,  also,  and  occasionally  uttering  a  smothered 
ejaculation. 

" If  we  only  could  keep  up  to  that  ar'  !  "  said  Tom  ;  —  "it 
seemed  to  come  so  natural  to  him,  and  we  have  to  fight  so  hard 
for  't !  0  Lord,  help  us !  O  blessed  Lord  Jesus,  do  help  us !  " 

"  Missis,"  said  Tom,  after  a  while,  "  I  can  see  that,  some  how, 
you  're  quite  'bove  me  in  everything ;  but  there 's  one  thing 
Missis  might  learn  even  from  poor  Tom.  Ye  said  the  Lord 
took  sides  against  us,  because  ne  lets  us  be  'bused  and  knocked 


404  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

round  ;  but  ye  see  what  come  on  his  own  Son,  —  the  blessed 
Lord  of  Glory,  —  warn't  he  allays  poor  ?  and  have  we,  any  on 
us,  yet  come  so  low  as  he  come  ?  The  Lord  han't  forgot  us,  — 
I  'm  sartin  o'  that  ar'.  If  we  suffer  with  him,  we  shall  also 
reign,  Scripture  says  ;  but,  if  we  deny  him,  he  also  will  deny  us. 
Did  n't  they  all  suffer  ?  —  the  Lord  and  all  his  ?  It  tells  how 
they  was  stoned  and  sawn  asunder,  and  wandered  about  in 
sheep-skins  and  goat-skins,  and  was  destitute,  afflicted,  tormented. 
Sufferin'  an't  no  reason  to  make  us  think  the  Lord  's  turned  agin 
us  ;  but  jest  the  contrary,  if  only  we  hold  on  to  him,  and  does  n't 
give  up  to  sin." 

"  But  why  does  he  put  us  where  we  can't  help  but  sin  ?  "  said 
the  woman. 

"  I  think  we  can  help  it,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  '11  see,"  said  Gassy  ;  "  what  '11  you  do  ?  To-morrow 
they  '11  be  at  you  again.  I  know  'em  ;  I  've  seen  all  their 
doings ;  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  all  they  11  bring  you  to  ;  —  and 
they  '11  make  you  give  out,  at  last !  " 

u  Lord  Jesus  !  "  said  Tom,  "  you  will  take  care  of  my  soul  ? 
O  Lord,  do  !  —  don't  let  me  give  out !  " 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  said  Gassy  ;  "  I  've  heard  all  this  crying  and 
praying  before ;  and  yet,  they  've  been  broken  down,  and 
brought  under.  There  's  Emmeline,  she  's  trying  to  hold  on, 
and  you  're  trying,  —  but  what  use  ?  You  must  give  up,  or  be 
killed  by  inches." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  die !  "  said  Tom.  "  Spin  it  out  as  long 
as  they  can,  they  can't  help  my  dying,  some  time !  —  and,  after 
that,  they  can't  do  no  more.  I  'm  clar,  I  'm  set !  I  know  the 
Lord  '11  help  me,  and  bring  me  through." 

The  woman  did  not  answer  ;  she  sat  with  her  black  eyes  in 
tently  fixed  on  the  floor. 

"  May  be  it 's  the  way,"  she  murmured  to  herself ;  "  but 
those  that  have  given  up,  there  's  no  hope  for  them  !  —  none  ! 
We  live  in  filth,  and  grow  loathsome,  till  we  loathe  ourselves ! 
And  we  long  to  die,  and  we  don't  dare  to  kill  ourselves !  —  No 
hope  !  no  hope !  no  hope  !  —  this  girl  now,  —  just  as  old  as  I 
was ! 

"  You  see  me  now,"  she  said,  speaking  to  Tom  very  rapidly; 
"  see  what  I  am  !  Well,  I  was  brought  up  in  luxury ;  the  first 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  405 

t  remember  is,  playing  about,  when  I  was  a  child,  in  splendid 
parlors  ;  —  when  I  was  kept  dressed  up  like  a  doll,  and  company 
and  visitors  used  to  praise  me.  There  was  a  garden  opening 
from  the  saloon  windows ;  and  there  I  used  to  play  hide-and-go- 
seek,  under  the  orange-trees,  with  my  brothers  and  sisters.  I 
went  to  a  convent,  arid  there  I  learned  music,  French,  and  em 
broidery,  and  what  not ;  and  when  I  was  fourteen,  I  came  out 
to  my  father's  funeral.  He  died  very  suddenly,  and  when  the 
property  came  to  be  settled,  they  found  that  there  was  scarcely 
enough  to  cover  the  debts  ;  and  when  the  creditors  took  an  in 
ventory  of  the  property,  I  was  set  down  in  it.  My  mother  was 
a  slave  woman,  and  my  father  had  always  meant  to  set  me  free ; 
but  he  had  not  done  it,  and  so  I  was  set  down  in  the  list.  I  'cl 
always  known  who  I  was,  but  never  thought  much  about  it.  No 
body  ever  expects  that  a  strong,  healthy  man  is  a  going  to  die. 
My  father  was  a  well  man  only  four  hours  before  he  died  ;  —  it 
was  one  of  the  first  cholera  cases  in  New  Orleans.  The  day 
after  the  funeral,  my  father's  wife  took  her  children,  and 
went  up  to  her  father's  plantation.  I  thought  they  treated  me 
strangely,  but  did  n't  know.  There  was  a  young  lawyer  whom 
they  left  to  settle  the  business ;  and  he  came  every  day,  and 
was  about  the  house,  and  spoke  very  politely  to  me.  He  brought 
with  him,  one  day,  a  young  man,  whom  I  thought  the  hand 
somest  I  had  ever  seen.  I  shall  never  forget  that  evening.  I 
walked  with  him  in  the  garden.  I  was  lonesome  and  full  of 
sorrow,  and  he  was  so  kind  and  gentle  to  me  ;  and  he  told  me 
that  he  had  seen  me  before  I  went  to  the  convent,  and  that  he 
had  loved  me  a  great  while,  and  that  he  would  be  my  friend  and 
protector  ;  —  in  short,  though  he  did  n't  tell  me,  he  had  paid  two 
thousand  dollars  for  me,  and  I  was  his  property,  —  I  became 
Lis  willingly,  for  I  loved  him.  Loved !  "  said  the  woman, 
stopping.  U01i,  how  I  did  love  that  man!  How  I  love  him 
now,  —  and  always  shall,  while  I  breathe  !  He  was  so  beauti 
ful,  so  high,  so  noble  !  He  put  me  into  a  beautiful  house,  with 
servants,  horses,  and  carriages,  and  furniture,  and  dresses. 
Everything  that  money  could  buy,  he  gave  me  ;  but  I  did  n't 
set  any  value  on  all  that,  —  I  only  cared  for  him.  I  loved 
him  better  than  my  God  and  my  own  soul ;  and,  if  I  tried,  I 
could  n't  do  any  other  way  from  what  he  wanted  me  to. 


406  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  I  wanted  only  one  thing,  —  I  did  want  him  to  marry  me. 
I  thought,  if  he  loved  me  as  he  said  he  did,  and  if  I  was  what 
he  seemed  to  think  I  was,  he  would  be  willing  to  marry  me  and 
set  me  free.  But  he  convinced  me  that  it  would  be  impossible ; 
and  he  told  me  that,  if  we  were  only  faithful  to  each  other,  it 
was  marriage  before  God.  If  that  is  true,  was  n't  I  that  man's 
wife  ?  Was  n't  I  faithful  ?  For  seven  years,  did  n't  I  study 
every  look  and  motion,  and  only  live  and  breathe  to  please  him  ? 
He  had  the  yellow  fever,  and  for  twenty  days  and  nights  I 
watched  with  him.  I  alone,  —  and  gave  him  all  his  medicine, 
and  did  everything  for  him  ;  and  then  he  called  me  his  good 
angel,  and  said  I  'd  saved  his  life.  We  had  two  beautiful  chil 
dren.  The  first  was  a  boy,  and  we  called  him  Henry.  He  was 
the  image  of  his  father,  —  he  had  such  beautiful  eyes,  such  a 
forehead,  and  his  hair  hung  all  in  curls  around  it ;  and  he  had 
all  his  father's  spirit,  and  his  talent,  too.  Little  Elise,  he  said, 
looked  like  me.  He  used  to  tell  me  that  I  was  the  most  beauti 
ful  woman  in  Louisiana,  he  was  so  proud  of  me  and  the  chil 
dren.  He  used  to  love  to  have  me  dress  them  up,  and  take  them 
and  me  about  in  an  open  carriage,  and  hear  the  remarks  that 
people  would  make  on  us ;  and  he  used  to  fill  my  ears  constantly 
with  the  fine  things  that  were  said  in  praise  of  me  and  the  chil 
dren.  Oh,  those  were  happy  days  !  I  thought  I  was  as  happy 
as  any  one  could  be  ;  but  then  there  came  evil  times.  He  had 
a  cousin  come  to  New  Orleans,  who  was  his  particular  friend, 
—  he  thought  all  the  world  of  him  ;  —  but,  from  the  first  time 
I  saw  him,  I  could  n't  tell  why,  I  dreaded  him  ;  for  I  felt  sure 
he  was  going  to  bring  misery  on  us.  He  got  Henry  to  going 
out  with  him,  and  often  he  would  not  come  home  nights  till  two 
or  three  o'clock.  I  did  not  dare  say  a  word ;  for  Henry  was 
so  high-spirited,  I  was  afraid  to.  He  got  him  to  the  gaming 
houses  ;  and  he  was  one  of  the  sort  that,  when  he  once  got  a 
going  there,  there  was  no  holding  back.  And  then  he  introduced 
him  to  another  lady,  and  I  saw  soon  that  his  heart  was  gone 
from  me.  He  never  told  me,  but  I  saw  it,  —  I  knew  it,  day  after 
day,  —  I  felt  my  heart  breaking,  bjut  I  could  not  say  a  word ! 
At  this,  the  wretch  offered  to  buy  me  and  the  children  of  Henry, 
to  clear  off  his  gambling  debts,  which  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
marrying  as  he  wished ;  —  and  he  sold  us.  He  told  ine,  ons 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  407 

day,  that  he  had  business  in  the  country,  and  should  be  gone 
two  or  three  weeks.  He  spoke  kinder  than  usual,  and  said 
he  should  come  back  ;  but  it  did  n't  deceive  me.  I  knew  that 
the  time  had  come.  I  was  just  like  one  turned  into  stone ;  I 
could  n't  speak,  nor  shed  a  tear.  He  kissed  me  and  kissed  the 
children,  a  good  many  times,  and  went  out.  I  saw  him  get  on 
his  horse,  and  I  watched  him  till  he  was  quite  out  of  sight ;  and 
then  I  fell  down,  and  fainted. 

"  Then  he  came,  the  cursed  wretch !  he  came  to  take  posses 
sion.  He  told  me  that  he  had  bought  me  and  my  children ; 
and  showed  me  the  papers.  I  cursed  him  before  God,  and  told 
him  I  'd  die  sooner  than  live  with  him. 

i; '  Just  as  you  please,'  said  he ;  '  but,  if  you  don't  behave 
reasonably,  I  '11  sell  both  the  children,  where  you  shall  never 
see  them  again.'  He  told  me  that  he  always  had  meant  to  have 
me,  from  the  first  time  he  saw  me  ;  and  that  he  had  drawn 
Henry  on,  and  got  him  in  debt,  on  purpose  to  make  him  willing 
to  sell  me.  That  he  got  him  in  love  with  another  woman  ;  and 
that  I  might  know,  after  all  that,  that  he  should  not  give  up  for 
a  few  airs  and  tears,  and  things  of  that  sort. 

"  I  gave  up,  for  my  hands  were  tied.     He  had  my  children  ; 

—  whenever  I  resisted  his  will  anywhere,  he  would  talk  about 
selling  them,  and  he  made  me  as  submissive  as  he  desired.     Oh, 
what  a  life  it  was  !  to  live  with  my  heart  breaking,  every  day, 

—  to  keep  on,  on,  on,  loving,  when  it  was  only  misery  ;  and  to 
be  bound,  body  and  soul,  to  one  I  hated.     I  used  to  love  to 
read  to  Henry,  to  play  to  him,  to  waltz  with  him,  and  sing  to 
him ;  but  everything  I  did  for  this  one  was  a  perfect  drag,  — 
yet  I  was  afraid  to  refuse  anything.     He  was  very  imperious, 
and  harsh  to  the  children.     Elise  was  a  timid  little  thing ;  but 
Henry  was  bold  and  high-spirited,  like  his  father,  and  he  had 
never  been  brought  under,  in  the  least,  by  any  one.     He  was 
always  finding  fault,  and  quarrelling  with  him  ;  and  I  used  to 
live  in  daily  fear  and  dread.     I  tried  to  make  the  child  respect 
ful  ;  —  I  tried  to  keep  them  apart,  for  I  held  on  to  those  chil 
dren  like  death ;  but  it  did  no  good.     He  sold  both  those  chil 
dren.     He  took  me  to  ride,  one  day,  and  when  I  came  home, 
they  were  nowhere  to  be  found !     He  told  me  he  had  sold  them  ; 
he  showed  me  the  money,  the  price  of  their  blood.     Then  it 


408  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

seemed  as  if  all  good  forsook  me.  I  raved  and  cursed,  —  cursed 
God  and  man ;  and,  for  a  while,  I  believe,  he  really  was  afraid 
of  me.  But  he  did  n't  give  up  so.  He  told  me  that  my  chil 
dren  were  sold,  but  whether  I  ever  saw  their  faces  again,  de 
pended  on  him  ;  and  that,  if  I  was  n't  quiet,  they  should  smart 
for  it.  Well,  you  can  do  anything  with  a  woman,  when  you  Ve 
got  her  children.  He  made  me  submit ;  he  made  me  be  peace 
able  ;  he  flattered  me  with  hopes  that,  perhaps,  he  would  buy 
them  back ;  and  so  things  went  on,  a  week  or  two.  One  day,  I 
was  out  walking,  and  passed  by  the  calaboose  ;  I  saw  a  crowd 
about  the  gate,  and  heard  a  child's  voice,  —  and  suddenly  my 
Henry  broke  away  from  two  or  three  men  who  were  holding 
him,  and  ran,  screaming,  and  caught  my  dress.  They  came  up 
to  him,  swearing  dreadfully  ;  and  one  man,  whose  face  I  shall 
never  forget,  told  him  that  he  would  n't  get  away  so ;  that  he 
was  going  with  him  into  the  calaboose,  and  he  'd  get  a  lesson 
there  he  'd  never  forget.  I  tried  to  beg  and  plead,  —  they  only 
laughed  ;  the  poor  boy  screamed  and  looked  into  my  face  and 
held  on  to  me,  until,  in  tearing  him  off,  they  tore  the  skirt  of 
my  dress  half  away ;  and  they  carried  him  in,  screaming 
*  Mother  !  mother  !  mother !  '  There  was  one  man  stood  there 
seemed  to  pity  me.  I  offered  him  all  the  money  I  had,  if  he  'd 
only  interfere.  He  shook  his  head,  and  said  that  the  man  said 
the  boy  had  been  impudent  and  disobedient,  ever  since  he 
bought  him  ;  that  he  was  going  to  break  him  in,  once  for  all. 
I  turned  and  ran ;  and  every  step  of  the  way,  I  thought  that  I 
heard  him  scream.  I  got  into  the  house  ;  ran,  all  out  of  breath, 
to  the  parlor,  where  I  found  Butler.  I  told  him,  and  begged 
him  to  go  and  interfere.  He  only  laughed,  and  told  me  the  boy 
had  got  his  deserts.  He  'd  got  to  be  broken  in,  —  the  sooner 
the  better  ;  '  what  did  I  expect  ? '  he  asked. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  something  in  my  head  snapped,  at  that 
moment.  I  felt  dizzy  and  furious.  I  remember  seeing  a  great 
sharp  bowie-knife  on  the  table;  I  remember  something  about 
catching  it,  and  flying  upon  him  ;  and  then  all  grew  dark,  and  I 
did  n't  know  any  more  —  not  for  days  and  days. 

"  When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  in  a  nice  room,  —  but  not 
mine.  An  old  black  woman  tended  me ;  and  a  doctor  came  to 
see  me,  and  th&ve  was  a  great  deal  of  care  taken  of  me.  After 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  409 

a  while,  I  found  that  he  had  gone  away,  and  left  me  at  this 
house  to  be  sold  ;  and  that 's  why  they  took  such  pains  with  me. 
"  I  did  n't  mean  to  get  well,  and  hoped  I  should  n't ;  but,  in 
spxte  of  me,  the  fever  went  off,  and  I  grew  healthy,  and  finally 
got  up.  Then,  they  made  me  dress  up,  every  day  ;  and  gentle 
men  used  to  come  in  and  stand  and  smoke  their  cigars,  and  look 
at  me,  and  ask  questions,  and  debate  my  price.  I  was  so  gloomy 
and  silent,  that  none  of  them  wanted  me.  They  threatened  to 
whip  me,  if  I  was  n't  gayer,  and  did  n't  take  some  pains  to  malt e 
myself  agreeable.  At  length,  one  day,  came  a  gentleman  named 
Stuart.  He  seemed  to  have  some  feeling  for  me ;  he  saw  that 
something  dreadful  was  on  my  heart,  and  he  came  to  see  me 
alone,  a  great  many  times,  and  finally  persuaded  me  to  tell  him. 
He  bought  me,  at  last,  and  promised  to  do  all  he  could  to  find 
and  buy  back  my  children.  He  went  to  the  hotel  where  my 
Henry  was  ;  they  told  him  he  had  been  sold  to  a  planter  up  on 
Pearl  River  ;  that  was  the  last  that  I  ever  heard.  Then  he  found 
where  my  daughter  was ;  an  old  woman  was  keeping  her.  He 
offered  an  immense  sum  for  her,  but  they  would  not  sell  her. 
Butler  found  out  that  it  was  for  me  he  wanted  her ;  and  he  sent 
me  word  that  I  should  never  have  her.  Captain  Stuart  was  very 
kind  to  me  ;  he  had  a  splendid  plantation,  and  took  me  to  it.  In 
the  course  of  a  year,  I  had  a  son  born.  Oh,  that  child  !  —  how 
I  loved  it!  How  just  like  my  poor  Henry  the  little  thing 
looked  !  But  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  —  yes,  I  had.  I  would 
never  again  let  a  child  live  to  grow  up  !  I  took  the  little  fellow 
in  my  arms,  when  he  was  two  weeks  old,  and  kissed  him,  and 
cried  over  him  ;  and  then  I  gave  him  laudanum,  and  held  him 
close  to  my  bosom,  while  he  slept  to  death.  How  I  mourned  and 
cried  over  it !  and  who  ever  dreamed  that  it  was  anything  but  a 
mistake,  that  had  made  me  give  it  the  laudanum  ?  but  it 's  one 
of  the  few  things  that  I  'm  glad  of  now.  I  am  not  sorry,  to  this 
day  ;  he,  at  least,  is  out  of  pain.  What  better  than  death  could 
I  give  him,  poor  child !  After  a  while,  the  cholera  came,  and 
Captain  Stuart  died  ;  everybody  died  that  wanted  to  live,  —  and 
I,  —  I,  though  I  went  down  to  death's  door,  —  /  lived  !  Then  I 
was  sold,  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  till  I  grew  faded  and 
wrinkled,  and  I  had  a  fever ;  and  then  this  wretch  bought  me, 
and  brought  me  here,  —  and  here  I  am !  " 


410  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

The  woman  stopped.  She  had  hurried  on  through  her  story, 
with  a  wild,  passionate  utterance  ;  sometimes  seeming  to  address 
it  to  Tom,  and  sometimes  speaking  as  in  a  soliloquy.  So  vehe 
ment  and  overpowering  was  the  force  with  which  she  spoke, 
that,  for  a  season,  Tom  was  beguiled  even  from  the  pain  of  his 
wounds,  and,  raising  himself  on  one  elbow,  watched  her  as  she 
paced  restlessly  up  and  down,  her  long  black  hair  swaying 
heavily  about  her  as  she  moved. 

"  You  tell  me,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that  there  is  a  God, 
—  a  God  that  looks  down  and  sees  all  these  things.  May  be  it 's 
so.  The  sisters  in  the  convent  used  to  tell  me  of  a  day  of  judg 
ment,  when  everything  is  coming  to  light;  —  won't  there  be 
vengeance  then ! 

"  They  think  it 's  nothing,  what  we  suffer,  —  nothing,  what 
our  children  suffer  !  It 's  all  a  small  matter ;  yet  I  've  walked 
the  streets  when  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  misery  enough  in  my  one 
heart  to  sink  the  city.  I  Ve  wished  the  houses  would  fall  on  me, 
or  the  stones  sink  under  me.  Yes  !  and,  in  the  judgment  day,  I 
will  stand  up  before  God,  a  witness  against  those  that  have 
ruined  me  and  my  children,  body  and  soul ! 

"  When  I  was  a  girl,  I  thought  I  was  religious  ;  I  used  to  love 
God  and  prayer.  Now,  I  'in  a  lost  soul,  pursued  by  devils  that 
torment  me  day  and  night ;  they  keep  pushing  me  on  and  on,  — 
and  I  '11  do  it,  too,  some  of  these  days  !  "  she  said,  clenching  her 
hand,  while  an  insane  light  glanced  in  her  heavy  black  eyes. 
"  I  '11  send  him  where  he  belongs,  —  a  short  way,  too,  —  one  of 
these  nights,  if  they  burn  me  alive  for  it !  "  A  wild,  loud  laugh 
rang  through  the  deserted  room,  and  ended  in  a  hysteric  sob  ; 
she  threw  herself  on  the  floor,  in  convulsive  sobbings  and 
struggles. 

In  a  few  moments,  the  frenzy  fit  seemed  to  pass  off  ;  she  rose 
slowly,  and  seemed  to  collect  herself. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  more  for  you,  my  poor  fellow  ?  "  she 
said,  approaching  where  Tom  lay ;  "  shall  I  give  you  some  more 
water  ?  " 

There  was  a  graceful  and  compassionate  sweetness  in  her 
voice  and  manner,  as  she  said  this,  that  formed  a  strange  con 
trast  with  the  former  wildness. 

Tom  drank  the  water,  and  looked  earnestly  and  pitifully  into 
her  face. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  411 

**  Oh,  Missis,  I  wish  you  'd  go  to  Him  that  can  give  you  living 
waters ! " 

"  Go  to  him  !     Where  is  he  ?     Who  is  he  ?  "  said  Gassy. 

"  Him  that  you  read  of  to  ma,  —  the  Lord." 
'  I  used  to  see  the  picture  of  him,  over  the  altar,  when  I  was 
a  girl,"  said  Gassy,  her  dark  eyes  fixing  themselves  in  an  ex 
pression  of  mournful  reverie  ;  u  but  he  is  n't  here !  there  's 
nothing  here,  but  sin  and  long,  long,  long  despair !  Oh !  "  She 
laid  her  hand  on  her  breast  and  drew  in  her  breath,  as  if  to  lift 
a  heavy  weight. 

Tom  looked  as  if  he  would  speak  again ;  but  she  cut  him 
short,  with  a  decided  gesture. 

"  Don't  talk,  my  poor  fellow.  Try  to  sleep  if  you  can." 
And,  placing  water  in  his  reach,  and  making  whatever  little 
arrangements  for  his  comfort  she  could,  Gassy  left  the  shed. 


412  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OB, 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

THE    TOKENS. 

"  And  slight,  withal,  may  be  the  tilings  that  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  forever;  it  may  be  a  sound, 
A  flower,  the  wind,  the  ocean,  which  shall  wound,  — 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  're  darkly  bound." 

N  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Can.  4. 

THE  sitting-room  of  Legree's  establishment  was  a  large,  long 
room,  with  a  wide,  ample  fireplace.  It  had  once  been  hung 
with  a  showy  and  expensive  paper,  which  now  hung  mouldering, 
torn  and  discolored,  from  the  damp  walls.  The  place  had  that 
peculiar  sickening,  unwholesome  smell,  compounded  of  mingled 
damp,  dirt,  and  decay,  which  one  often  notices  in  close  old 
houses.  The  wall-paper  was  defaced,  in  spots,  by  slops  of  beer 
and  wine ;  or  garnished  with  chalk  memorandums,  and  long 
sums  footed  up,  as  if  somebody  had  been  practising  arithmetic 
there.  In  the  fireplace  stood  a  brazier  full  of  burning  charcoal ; 
for,  though  the  weather  was  not  cold,  the  evenings  always 
seemed  damp  and  chilly  in  that  great  room ;  and  Legree,  more 
over,  wanted  a  place  to  light  his  cigars,  and  heat  his  water  for 
punch.  The  ruddy  glare  of  the  charcoal  displayed  the  confused 
and  unpromising  aspect  of  the  room,  —  saddles,  bridles,  several 
sorts  of  harness,  riding-whips,  overcoats,  and  various  articles 
of  clothing,  scattered  up  ami  down  the  room  in  confused  variety  ; 
and  the  dogs,  of  whom  we  have  before  spoken,  had  encamped 
themselves  among  them  to  suit  their  own  taste  and  conven 
ience. 

Legree  was  just  mixing  himself  a  tumbler  of  punch,  pouring 
his  hot  water  from  a  cracked  and  broken-nosed  pitcher,  grum 
bling,  as  he  did  so,  — 

"  Plague  on  that  Sambo,  to  kick  up  this-yer  row  between  me 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  413 

and  the  new  hands !  The  fellow  won't  be  fit  to  work  for  a 
week,  now,  —  right  in  the  press  of  the  season !  " 

"  Yes,  just  like  you,"  said  a  voice,  behind  his  chair.  It  was 
the  woman  Gassy,  who  had  stolen  upon  his  soliloquy. 

"  Hah !  you  she-devil !  you  've  come  back,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  she  said,  coolly ;  "  come  to  have  my  own 
way,  too ! " 

"  You  lie,  you  jade  !  I  '11  be  up  to  my  word.  Either  behave 
yourself,  or  stay  down  to  the  quarters,  and  fare  and  work  with 
the  rest." 

"  I  'd  rather,  ten  thousand  times,"  said  the  woman,  "  live  in 
the  dirtiest  hole  at  the  quarters,  than  be  under  your  hoof !  " 

"  But  you  are  under  my  hoof,  for  all  that,"  said  he,  turning 
upon  her,  with  a  savage  grin  ;  "  that 's  one  comfort.  So,  sit 
down  here  on  my  knee,  my  dear,  and  hear  to  reason,"  said  he, 
laying  hold  on  her  wrist. 

"  Simon  Legree,  take  care  ! "  said  the  woman,  with  a  sharp 
flash  of  her  eye,  a  glance  so  wild  and  insane  in  its  light  as  to  be 
almost  appalling.  "You  're  afraid  of  me,  Simon,"  she  said, 
deliberately  ;  "  and  you  've  reason  to  be  !  But  be  careful,  for 
I  've  got  the  devil  in  me !  " 

The  last  words  she  whispered  in  a  hissing  tone,  close  to  his 
ear. 

"  Get  out !  I  believe,  to  my  soul,  you  have  !  "  said  Legree, 
pushing  her  from  him,  and  looking  uncomfortably  at  her. 
"  After  all.  Gassy,"  he  said,  "  why  can't  you  be  friends  with  me, 
as  you  used  to  ?  " 

"  Used  to !  "  said  she,  bitterly.  She  stopped  short,  —  a  world 
of  choking  feelings,  rising  in  her  heart,  kept  her  silent. 

Gassy  had  always  kept  over  Legree  the  kind  of  influence 
that  a  strong,  impassioned  woman  can  ever  keep  over  the  most 
brutal  man  ;  but,  of  late,  she  had  grown  more  and  more  irri 
table  and  restless,  under  the  hideous  yoke  of  her  servitude,  and 
her  irritability,  at  times,  broke  out  into  raving  insanity ;  and 
this  liability  made  her  a  sort  of  object  of  dread  to  Legree,  who 
had  that  superstitious  horror  of  insane  persons  which  is  common 
to  coarse  and  uninstructed  minds.  When  Legree  brought  Em- 
meline  to  the  house,  all  the  smouldering  embers  of  womanly 
feeling  flashed  up  in  the  worn  heart  of  Gassy,  and  she  took  part 


414  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

with  the  girl ;  and  a  fierce  quarrel  ensued  between  her  and  Le 
gree.  Legree,  in  a  fury,  swore  she  should  be  put  to  field  ser 
vice,  if  she  would  not  be  peaceable.  Gassy,  with  proud  scorn, 
declared  she  would  go  to  the  field.  And  she  worked  there  one 
day,  as  we  have  described,  to  show  how  perfectly  she  scorned 
the  threat. 

Legree  was  secretly  uneasy,  all  day ;  for  Gassy  had  an  influ 
ence  over  him  from  which  he  could  not  free  himself.  When 
she  presented  her  basket  at  the  scales,  he  had  hoped  for  some 
concession,  and  addressed  her  in  a  sort  of  half-conciliatory,  half- 
scornful  tone;  and  she  had  answered  with  the  bitterest  con 
tempt. 

The  outrageous  treatment  of  poor  Tom  had  roused  her  still 
more  ;  and  she  had  followed  Legree  to  the  house,  with  no  par 
ticular  intention,  but  to  upbraid  him  for  his  brutality. 

"I  wish,  Gassy,"  said  Legree,  "you  'd  behave  yourself  de 
cently." 

"  You  talk  about  behaving  decently !  And  what  have  you 
been  doing  ?  —  you,  who  have  n't  even  sense  enough  to  keep 
from  spoiling  one  of  your  best  hands,  right  in  the  most  pressing 
season,  just  for  your  devilish  temper  !  " 

"  I  was  a  fool,  it  's  a  fact,  to  let  any  such  brangle  come  up," 
said  Legree  ;  "  but,  when  the  boy  set  up  his  will,  he  had  to  be 
broke  in." 

"  I  reckon  you  won't  break  him  in !  " 

"  Won't  I  ?  "  said  Legree,  rising,  passionately.  "  I  'd  like  to 
know  if  I  won't  I  He  '11  be  the  first  nigger  that  ever  came  it 
round  me !  I  '11  break  every  bone  in  his  body,  but  he  shall 
give  up  !  " 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  Sambo  entered.  He  came 
forward,  bowing,  and  holding  out  something  in  a  paper. 

"  What  's  that,  you  dog  ?  "  said  Legree. 

"  It  's  a  witch  thing,  Mas'r  !  " 

"A  what?" 

"  Something  that  niggers  gets  from  witches.  Keeps  'em  from 
feelin'  when  they  's  flogged.  He  had  it  tied  round  his  neck, 
with  a  black  string." 

Legree,  like  most  godless  and  cruel  men,  was  superstitious, 
He  took  the  paper  and  opened  it  uneasily. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  415 

There  dropped  out  of  it  a  silver  dollar,  and  a  long,  shining 
curl  of  fair  hair,  —  hair  which,  like  a  living  thing,  twined  itself 
round  Legree's  fingers. 

"  Damnation  !  "  he  screamed,  in  sudden  passion,  stamping  on 
the  floor,  and  pulling  furiously  at  the  hair,  as  if  it  burned  him. 
"  Where  did  this  come  from  ?  Take  it  off  !  —  burn  it  up  !  — 
burn  it  up  !  "  he  screamed,  tearing  it  off,  and  throwing  it  into 
the  charcoal.  "  What  did  you  bring  it  to  me  for  ?  " 

Sambo  stood,  with  his  heavy  mouth  wide  open,  and  aghast 
with  wonder  ;  and  Gassy,  who  was  preparing  to  leave  the  apart 
ment,  stopped,  and  looked  at  him  in  perfect  amazement. 

"  Don't  you  bring  me  any  more  of  your  devilish  things  !  " 
said  he,  shaking  his  fist  at  Sambo,  who  retreated  hastily  to 
wards  the  door ;  and,  picking  up  the  silver  dollar,  he  sent  it 
smashing  through  the  window-pane,  out  into  the  darkness. 

Sambo  was  glad  to  make  his  escape.  When  he  was  gone, 
Legree  seemed  a  little  ashamed  of  his  fit  of  alarm.  He  sat 
doggedly  down  in  his  chair,  and  began  sullenly  sipping  his  tum 
bler  of  punch. 

Gassy  prepared  herself  for  going  out,  unobserved  by  him ; 
and  slipped  away  to  minister  to  poor  Tom,  as  we  have  already 
related. 

And  what  was  the  matter  with  Legree  ?  and  what  was  there 
in  a  simple  curl  of  fair  hair  to  appall  that  brutal  man,  familiar 
with  every  form  of  cruelty  ?  To  answer  this,  we  must  carry 
the  reader  backward  in  his  history.  Hard  and  reprobate  as 
the  godless  man  seemed  now,  there  had  been  a  time  when  he 
had  been  rocked  on  the  bosom  of  a  mother,  —  cradled  with 
prayers  and  pious  hymns,  —  his  now  seared  brow  bedewed 
with  the  waters  of  holy  baptism.  In  early  childhood,  a  fair- 
haired  woman  had  led  him,  at  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bell,  to 
worship  and  to  pray.  Far  in  New  England  that  mother  had 
trained  her  only  son,  with  long,  unwearied  love,  and  patient 
prayers.  Born  of  a  hard-tempered  sire,  on  whom  that  gentle 
woman  had  wasted  a  world  of  unvalued  love,  Legree  had  fol 
lowed  in  the  steps  of  his  father.  Boisterous,  unruly,  and  tyran 
nical,  he  despised  all  her  counsel,  and  would  none  of  her  re 
proof  ;  and,  at  an  early  age,  broke  from  her,  to  seek  his  for 
tunes  at  sea.  He  never  came  home  but  once,  after ;  and  then, 


416  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

his  mother,  with  the  yearning  of  a  heart  that  must  love  some* 
thing,  and  has  nothing  else  to  love,  clung  to  him,  and  sought, 
with  passionate  prayers  and  entreaties,  to  win  him  from  a  life 
of  sin,  to  his  soul's  eternal  good. 

That  was  Legree's  day  of  grace ;  then  good  angels  called 
him  ;  then  he  was  almost  persuaded,  and  mercy  held  him  by 
the  hand.  His  heart  inly  relented,  —  there  was  a  conflict,  — 
but  sin  got  the  victory,  and  he  set  all  the  force  of  his  rough 
nature  against  the  conviction  of  his  conscience.  He  drank  and 
swore,  —  was  wilder  and  more  brutal  than  ever.  And,  one 
night,  when  his  mother,  in  the  last  agony  of  her  despair,  knelt 
at  his  feet,  he  spurned  her  from  him,  —  threw  her  senseless  on 
the  floor,  and,  with  brutal  curses,  fled  to  his  ship.  The  next 
Legree  heard  of  his  mother  was,  when,  one  night,  as  he  was 
carousing  among  drunken  companions,  a  letter  was  put  into  his 
hand.  He  opened  it,  and  a  lock  of  long,  curling  hair  fell  from 
it,  and  twined  about  his  fingers.  The  letter  told  him  his  mother 
was  dead,  and  that,  dying,  she  blest  and  forgave  him. 

There  is  a  dread,  unhallowed  necromancy  of  evil,  that  turns 
things  sweetest  and  holiest  to  phantoms  of  horror  and  affright. 
That  pale,  loving  mother,  —  her  dying  prayers,  her  forgiving 
love,  —  wrought  in  that  demoniac  heart  of  sin  only  as  a  damn 
ing  sentence,  bringing  with  it  a  fearful  looking  for  of  judgment 
and  fiery  indignation.  Legree  burned  the  hair,  and  burned 
the  letter ;  and  when  he  saw  them  hissing  and  crackling  in 
the  flame,  inly  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  everlasting  fires. 
He  tried  to  drink,  and  revel,  and  swear  away  the  memory  ; 
but  often,  in  the  deep  night,  whose  solemn  stillness  arraigns 
the  bad  soul  in  forced  communion  with  herself,  he  had  seen 
that  pale  mother  rising  by  his  bedside,  and  felt  the  soft  twin 
ing  of  that  hair  around  his  fingers,  till  the  cold  sweat  would 
roll  down  his  face,  and  he  would  spring  from  his  bed  in  horror. 
Ye  who  have  wondered  to  hear,  in  the  same  evangel,  that  God 
is  love,  and  that  God  is  a  consuming  fire,  see  ye  not  how,  to 
the  soul  resolved  in  evil,  perfect  love  is  the  most  fearful  tor 
ture,  the  seal  and  sentence  of  the  direst  despair  ? 

"  Blast  it !  "  said  Legree  to  himself,  as  he  sipped  his  liquor  -, 
"  where  did  he  get  that  ?  if  it  did  n't  look  just  like  —  whoo ! 
I  thought  I  'd  forgot  that.  Curse  me,  if  I  think  there  's  any 


LIFE   AMONG    THE    LOWLY.  417 

such  thing  as  forgetting  anything,  any  how,  —  hang  it !  I  'm 
lonesome  !  I  mean  to  call  Em.  She  hates  me  —  the  monkey  ! 
I  don't  care,  —  I  '11  make  her  come  !  " 

Legree  stepped  out  into  a  large  entry,  which  went  up  stairs, 
by  what  had  formerly  been  a  superb  winding  staircase  ;  but  the 
passage-way  was  dirty  and  dreary,  encumbered  with  boxes  and 
unsightly  litter.  The  stairs,  uncarpeted,  seemed  winding  up 
in  the  gloom,  to  nobody  knew  where  !  The  pale  moonlight 
streamed  through  a  shattered  fanlight  over  the  door ;  the  air 
was  unwholesome  and  chilly,  like  that  of  a  vault. 

Legree  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  heard  a  voice 
singing.  It  seemed  strange  and  ghostlike  in  that  dreary  old 
house,  perhaps  because  of  the  already  tremulous  state  of  his 
nerves.  Hark  !  what  is  it  ? 

A  wild,  pathetic  voice  chants  a  hymn  common  among  the 
slaves :  — 

"  Oh,  there  '11  be  mourning,  mourning,  mourning, 
Oh,  there  '11  be  mourning,  at  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ!  " 

"  Blast  the  girl !  "  said  Legree.  "  I  '11  choke  her.  —  Em ! 
Em !  "  he  called,  harshly  ;  but  only  a  mocking  echo  from  the 
walls  answered  him.  The  sweet  voice  still  sung  on  :  — 

"  Parents  and  children  there  shall  part ! 
Parents  and  children  there  shall  part ! 
Shall  part  to  meet  no  more  !  " 

And  clear  and  loud  swelled  through  the  empty  halls  the  re 
frain,  — 

'Oh, there  '11  be  mourning,  mourning,  mourning, 
Oh, there  '11  be  mourning,  at  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ!  " 

Legree  stopped.  He  would  have  been  ashamed  to  tell  of  it, 
but  large  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead,  his  heart  beat 
heavy  and  thick  with  fear ;  he  even  thought  he  saw  something 
white  rising  and  glimmering  in  the  gloom  before  him,  and 
shuddered  to  think  what  if  the  form  of  his  dead  mother  should 
suddenly  appear  to  him. 

"  I  know  one  thing,"  he   said   to  himself,   as  he   stumbled 

back  in  the  sitting-room,  and  sat  down  ;  "I  '11  let  that  fellow 

alone  after  this !     What  did  I  want  of  his  cussed  paper  ?     I 

b'lieye  I  am  bewitched,  sure  enough  !     I  've  been  shivering  and 

27 


418  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;   OR, 

sweating,  ever  since  !  Where  did  he  get  that  hair  ?  It  could  n't 
have  been  that !  I  burnt  that  up,  I  know  I  did  !  It  would  be 
a  joke  if  hair  could  rise  from  the  dead  !  " 

Ah,  Legree  !  that  golden  tress  was  charmed ;  each  hair  had 
in  it  a  spell  of  terror  and  remorse  for  thee,  and  was  used  by  a 
mightier  power  to  bind  thy  cruel  hands  from  inflicting  uttermost 
evil  on  the  helpless  ! 

"  I  say,"  said  Legree,  stamping  and  whistling  to  the  dogs, 
(t  wake  up,  some  of  you,  and  keep  me  company !  "  but  the  dogs 
only  opened  one  eye  at  him,  sleepily,  and  closed  it  again. 

"  I  'il  have  Sambo  and  Quimbo  up  here,  to  sing  and  dance 
one  of  their  hell  dances,  and  keep  off  these  horrid  notions," 
said  Legree  ;  and,  putting  on  his  hat,  he  went  on  to  the  veranda, 
and  blew  a  horn,  with  which  he  commonly  summoned  his  two 
sable  drivers. 

Legree  was  often  wont,  when  in  a  gracious  humor,  to  get 
these  two  worthies  into  his  sitting-room,  and,  after  warming 
them  up  with  whiskey,  amuse  himself  by  setting  them  to  sing 
ing,  dancing,  or  lighting,  as  the  humor  took  him. 

It  was  between  one  and  two  o'clock  at  night,  as  Gassy  was 
returning  from  her  ministrations  to  poor  Tom,  that  she  heard 
the  sound  of  wild  shrieking,  whooping,  hallooing,  and  singing, 
from  the  sitting-room,  mingled  with  the  barking  of  dogs,  and 
other  symptoms  of  a  general  uproar. 

She  came  up  on  the  veranda  steps,  and  looked  in.  Legree 
and  both  the  drivers-,  in  a  state  of  furious  intoxication,  were 
singing,  whooping,  upsetting  chairs,  and  making  all  manner  of 
ludicrous  and  horrid  grimaces  at  each  other. 

She  rested  her  small,  slender  hand  on  the  window-blind,  and 
looked  fixedly  at  them  ;  —  there  was  a  world  of  anguish,  scorn, 
and  fierce  bitterness,  in  her  black  eyes  as  she  did  so.  "  Would 
it  be  a  sin  to  rid  the  world  of  such  a  wretch  ?  "  she  said  to  her 
self. 

She  turned  hurriedly  away,  and,  passing  round  to  a  back 
doo>r,  glided  up  stairs,  and  tapped  at  Emmeline's  door. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  419 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

EMMELINE    AND    CASSY. 

GASSY  entered  the  room,  and  found  Emmeline  sitting,  pale  with 
fear,  in  the  furthest  corner  of  it.  As  she  came  in,  the  girl  started 
up  nervously ;  but,  on  seeing  who  it  was,  rushed  forward,  and 
catching  her  arm,  said,  "  Oh,  Gassy,  is  it  you  ?  I  'm  so  glad 
you  've  come  !  I  was- afraid  it  was  —  Oh,  you  don't  know  what 
a  horrid  noise  there  has  been,  down  stairs,  all  this  evening !  " 

"  I  ought  to  know,"  said  Gassy,  dryly.  "  I  've  heard  it  often 
enough." 

"  Oh,  Gassy !  do  tell  me,  —  could  n't  we  get  away  from  this 
place?  I  don't  care  where, — into  the  swamp  among  the 
snakes,  —  anywhere  !  Could  n't  we  get  somewhere  away  fron? 
here?" 

"  Nowhere,  but  into  our  graves,"  said  Gassy. 

"  Did  you  ever  try  ?  " 

"  I  've  seen  enough  of  trying,  and  what  comes  of  it,"  said 
Gassy. 

"  I  'd  be  willing  to  live  in  the  swamps,  and  gnaw  the  bark 
from  trees.  I  an't  afraid  of  snakes !  I  'd  rather  have  one 
near  me  than  him,"  said  Emmeline,  eagerly. 

"  There  have  been  a  good  many  here  of  your  opinion,"  said 
Gassy ;  "  but  you  could  n't  stay  in  the  swamps,  —  you  'd  be 
tracked  by  the  dogs,  and  brought  back,  and  then  —  then  "  — 

"  What  would  he  do  ?  "  said  the  girl,  looking,  with  breathless 
interest,  into  her  face. 

"What  wouldn't  he  do,  you'd  better  ask,"  said  Gassy. 
"  He  's  learned  his  trade  well,  among  the  pirates  in  the  West 
Indies,  You  would  n't  sleep  much,  if  I  should  tell  you  things 
I  've  seen,  —  things  that  he  tells  of,  sometimes,  for  good  jokes. 
I  've  heard  screams  here  that  I  have  n't  been  able  to  get  out  of 
my  head  for  weeks  and  v/e-eks.  There  's  a  place  way  out  down 


420  UNCLE  TOM'S  CAP,™  ;  OR, 

by  the  quarters,  where  you  can  see  a  black,  blasted  tree,  and 
the  ground  all  covered  with  black  ashes.  Ask  any  one  what 
was  done  there,  and  see  if  they  will  dare  to  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  won't  tell  you.  I  hate  to  think  of  it.  And  I  tell  you, 
the  Lord  only  knows  what  we  may  see  to-morrow,  if  that  poor 
fellow  holds  out  as  he  's  begun." 

"  Horrid !  "  said  Emmeline,  every  drop  of  blood  receding 
from  her  cheeks.  "  Oh,  Gassy,  do  tell  me  what  I  shall  do  !  " 

"  What  I  Ve  done.  Do  the  best  you  can,  —  do  what  you 
must,  —  and  make  it  up  in  hating  and  cursing." 

"  He  wanted  to  make  me  drink  some  of  his  hateful  brandy," 
said  Emmeline  ;  "  and  I  hate  it  so  "  — 

"You'd  better  drink,"  said  Gassy.  "'I  hated  it,  too;  and 
now  I  can't  live  without  it.  One  must  have  something,  — 
things  don't  look  so  dreadful,  when  you  take  that." 

"  Mother  used  to  tell  me  never  to  touch  any  such  thing,"  said 
Emmeline. 

"  Mother  told  you !  "  said  Gassy,  with  a  thrilling  and  bitter 
emphasis  on  the  word  mother.  '"  What  use  is  it  for  mothers  to 
say  anything  ?  You  are  all  to  be  bought  and  paid  for,  and  your 
soul  belongs  to  whoever  gets  you.  That 's  the  way  it  goes.  I 
say,  drink  brandy ;  drink  all  you  can,  and  it  '11  make  things 
come  easier." 

"  Oh,  Gassy  !  do  pity  me !  " 

"  Pity  you !  —  don't  I  ?  Have  n't  I  a  daughter,  —  Lord 
knows  where  she  is,  and  whose  she  is,  now,  —  going  the  way 
her  mother  went,  before  her,  I  suppose,  and  that  her  children 
must  go,  after  her !  There  's  no  end  to  the  curse  —  forever !  " 

"  I  wish  I  'd  never  been  born  !  "  said  Emmeline,  wringing 
her  hands. 

"  That 's  an  old  wish  with  me,"  said  Gassy.  "  I  Ve  got  used 
to  wishing  that.  I  'd  die,  if  I  dared  to,"  she  said,  looking  out 
into  the  darkness,  with  that  still,  fixed  despair  which  was  the 
habitual  expression  of  her  face  when  at  rest. 

"It  would  be  wicked  to  kill  one's  self,"  said  Emmeline. 

"  I  don't  know  why,  —  no  wickeder  than  things  we  live  and 
do,  day  after  day.  But  the  sisters  told  me  things,  when  I  was 
in  the  convent,  that  make  me  afraid  to  die.  If  it  would  only 
be  the  end  of  us,  why  then  "  — 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  421 

Emmeline  turned  away,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

While  this  conversation  was  passing  in  the  chamber,  Legree, 
overcome  with  his  carouse,  had  sunk  to  sleep  in  the  room 
below.  Legree  was  not  an  habitual  drunkard.  His  coarse, 
strong  nature  craved,  and  could  endure,  a  continual  stimula 
tion  that  would  have  utterly  wrecked  and  crazed  a  finer  one. 
But  a  deep,  underlying  spirit  of  cautiousness  prevented  his 
often  yielding  to  appetite  in  such  measure  as  to  lose  control  of 
himself. 

This  night,  however,  in  his  feverish  efforts  to  banish  from  his 
mind  those  fearful  elements  of  woe  and  remorse  which  woke 
within  him,  he  had  indulged  more  than  common  ;  so  that,  when 
he  had  discharged  his  sable  attendants,  he  fell  heavily  on  a 
settle  in  the  room,  and  was  soon  sound  asleep. 

Oh !  how  dares  the  bad  soul  to  enter  the  shadowy  world  of 
sleep?  —  that  land  whose  dim  outlines  lie  so  fearfully  near  to 
the  mystic  scene  of  retribution !  Legree  dreamed.  In  his 
heavy  and  feverish  sleep,  a  veiled  form  stood  beside  him,  and 
laid  a  cold,  soft  hand  upon  him.  He  thought  he  knew  who  it 
was ;  and  shuddered,  with  creeping  horror,  though  the  face  was 
veiled.  Then  he  thought  he  felt  that  hair  twining  round  his 
fingers ;  and  then,  that  it  slid  smoothly  round  his  neck,  and 
tightened  and  tightened,  and  he  could  not  draw  his  breath ;  and 
then  he  thought  voices  whispered  to  him,  —  whispers  that  chilled 
him  with  horror.  Then  it  seemed  to  him  he  was  on  the  edge 
of  a  frightful  abyss,  holding  on  and  struggling  in  mortal  fear, 
while  dark  hands  stretched  up,  and  were  pulling  him  over ;  and 
Gassy  came  behind  him  laughing,  and  pushed  him.  And  then 
rose  up  that  solemn  veiled  figure,  and  drew  aside  the  veil.  It. 
was  his  mother;  and  she  turned  away  from  him,  and  he  fell 
down,  down,  down,  amid  a  confused  noise  of  shrieks,  and 
groans,  and  shouts  of  demon  laughter,  —  and  Legree  awoke. 

Calmly  the  rosy  hue  of  dawn  was  stealing  into   the   room. 
The  morning  star  stood,  with  its  solemn,  holy  eye  of  light,  look 
ing  down  on  the  man  of  sin.  from  out  the  brightening  sky.     Oh, 
\vith  what  freshness,  what  solemnity  and  beauty,  is  each  new 
<        born ;  as  if  to  say  to  insensate  man,  ft  Behold !  thou  hast 
more  chance  !     Strive  for  immortal  glory !  "     There  is  no 
"ch  nor  language  where  this  voice  is  not  heard  ;  but  the  bold, 


422  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  J   OR, 

bad  man  heard  it  not.  He  woke  with  an  oath  and  a  curse. 
What  to  him  was  the  gold  and  purple,  the  daily  miracle  of 
morning  !  What  to  him  the  sanctity  of  that  star  which  the  Son 
of  God  has  hallowed  as  his  own  emblem  ?  Brute-like,  he  saw 
without  perceiving ;  and,  stumbling  forward,  poured  out  a  tum 
bler  of  brandy  and  drank  half  of  it. 

"  I  Ve  had  a  h — 1  of  a  night !  "  he  said  to  Gassy,  who  just 
then  entered  from  an  opposite  door. 

"  You  '11  get  plenty  of  the  same  sort,  by  and  by,"  said  she, 
dryly. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  minx  ?  '' 

"  You  '11  find  out,  one  of  these  days,"  returned  Cassy,  in  the 
same  tone.  "  Now,  Simon,  I  Ve  one  piece  of  advice  to  give 
you." 

"  The  devil,  you  have  !  " 

"  My  advice  is,"  said  Cassy,  steadily,  as  she  began  adjusting 
some  things  about  the  room,  "  that  you  let  Tom  alone." 

"  What  business  is  't  of  yours  ?  " 

"  What  ?  To  be  sure,  I  don't  know  what  it  should  be.  If 
you  want  to.  pay  twelve  hundred  for  a  fellow,  and  use  him  right 
up  in  the  press  of  the  season,  just  to  serve  your  own  spite,  it 's 
no  business  of  mine.  I  Ve  done  what  I  could  for  him." 

"  You  have  ?  What  business  have  you  meddling  in  my 
matters  ?  " 

"  None,  to  be  sure.  I  Ve  saved  you  some  thousands  of  dol 
lars,  at  different  times,  by  taking  care  of  your  hands,  —  that 's 
all  the  thanks  I  get.  If  your  crop  comes  shorter  into  market 
than  any  of  theirs,  you  won't  lose  your  bet,  I  suppose  ?  Tomp- 
kins  won't  lord  it  over  you,  I  suppose,  —  and  you'll  pay  down 
your  money  like  a  lady,  won't  you  ?  I  think  I  see  you  doing 
it!" 

Legree,  like  many  other  planters,  had  but  one  form  of  ambi 
tion, —  to  have  in  the  heaviest  crop  of  the  season,  —  and  he 
had  several  bets  on  this  very  present  season  pending  in  the  next 
town.  Cassy,  therefore,  with  woman's  tact,  touched  the  only 
string  that  could  be  made  to  vibrate. 

"  Well,  I  '11  let  him  off  at  what  he  's  got,"  said  Legree  ;  "  but 
he  shall  beg  my  pardon,  and  promise  better  fashions." 

"  That  he  won't  do,"  said  Cassy. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  423 

"Won't,  — eh?" 

"  No,  he  won't,"  said  Gassy. 

"  I  'd  like  to  know  why.  Mistress,"  said  Legree,  in  the  ex 
treme  of  scorn. 

"  Because  he  's  done  right,  and  he  knows  it,  and  won't  say 
he  's  done  wrong." 

"  Who  a  cuss  cares  what  he  knows  ?  The  nigger  shall  say 
what  I  please,  or  "  — 

"  Or,  you  11  lose  your  bet  on  the  cotton  crop,  by  keeping  him 
out  of  the  field,  just  at  this  very  press." 

"  But  he  will  give  up,  —  course,  he  will ;  don't  I  know  what 
niggers  is  ?  He  '11  beg  like  a  dog,  this  morning." 

"  He  won't,  Simon  ;  you  don't  know  this  kind.  You  may  kill 
him  by  inches,  —  you  won't  get  the  first  word  of  confession  out 
of  him." 

"  We  '11  see  ;  —  where  is  he  ?  "  said  Legree,  going  out. 

"  In  the  waste-room  of  the  gin-house,"  said  Gassy. 

Legree.  'though  he  talked  so  stoutly  to  Gassy,  still  sallied  forth 
from  the  house  with  a  degree  of  misgiving  which  was  not  com 
mon  with  him.  His  dreams  of  the  past  night,  mingled  with 
Gassy 's  prudential  suggestions,  considerably  affected  his  mind. 
He  resolved  that  nobody  should  be  witness  of  his  encounter 
with  Tom  ;  and  determined,  if  he  could  not  subdue  him  by  bully 
ing,  to  defer  his  vengeance,  to  be  wreaked  in  a  more  convenient 
season. 

The  solemn  light  of  dawn  —  the  angelic  glory  of  the  morning 
star  —  had  looked  in  through  the  rude  window  of  the  shed  where 
Tom  was  lying  ;  and,  as  if  descending  on  that  star-beam,  came 
the  solemn  words,  "  I  am  the  root  and  offspring  of  David,  and 
the  bright  and  morning  star."  The  mysterious  warnings  and 
intimations  of  Gassy,  so  far  from  discouraging  his  soul,  in  the 
end  had  aroused  it  as  with  a  heavenly  call.  He  did  not  know 
but  that  the  day  of  his  death  was  dawning  in  the  sky  ;  and  his 
heart  throbbed  with  solemn  throes  of  joy  and  desire,  as  he 
thought  that  the  wondrous  all,  of  which  he  had  often  pondered, 
—  the'  great  white  throne,  with  its  ever  radiant  rainbow  ;  the 
white-robed  multitude,  with  voices  as  many  waters  ;  the  crowns, 
the  palms,  the  harps,  —  might  all  break  upon  his  vision  before 
that  sun  should  set  again.  And.,  therefore,  without  shuddering 


424  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

or  trembling,  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  persecutor,  as  he  drew 
near. 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  said  Legree,  with  a  contemptuous  kick, 
"  how  do  you  find  yourself  ?  Did  n't  I  tell  yer  I  could  larn  yer 
a  thing  or  two  ?  How  do  yer  like  it,  —  eh  ?  How  did  yer 
whaling  agree  with  yer,  Tom  ?  An't  quite  so  crank  as  ye  was 
last  night.  Ye  could  n't  treat  a  poor  sinner,  now,  to  a  bit  of  a 
sermon,  could  ye,  —  eh  ?  " 

Tom  answered  nothing.- 

"  Get  up,  you  beast !  "  said  Legree,  kicking  him  again. 

This  was  a  difficult  matter  for  one  so  bruised  and  faint ;  and, 
as  Tom  made  efforts  to  do  so,  Legree  laughed  brutally. 

"  What  makes  ye  so  spry,  this  morning,  Tom  ?  Cotched  cold, 
may  be,  last  night." 

Tom  by  this  time  had  gained  his  feet,  and  was  confronting  his 
master  with  a  steady,  unmoved  front. 

"The  devil,  you  can!  "  said  Legree,  looking  him  over.  "I 
believe  you  have  n't  got  enough  yet.  Now,  Tom,  get  right 
down  on  yer  knees  and  beg  my  pardon,  for  yer  shines  last 
night.  ' 

Tom  did  not  move. 

"  Down,  you  dog !  "  said  Legree,  striking  him  with  his  riding- 
whip. 

"  Mas'r  Legree,"  said  Tom,  "I  can't  do  it.  I  did  only  what 
I  thought  was  right.  I  shall  do  just  so  again,  if  ever  the  time 
comes.  I  never  will  do  a  cruel  thing,  come  what  may." 

"  Yes,  but  ye  don't  know  what  may  come,  Master  Tom.  Ye 
think  what  you  've  got  is  something.  I  tell  you  't  an't  anything, 

—  nothing  't  all.     How  would  ye  like  to  be  tied  to  a  tree,  and 
have  a  slow  fire  lit  up  around  ye  ;  —  would  n't  that  be  pleasant, 

—  eh,  Tom?" 

"  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  "  I  know  ye  can  do  dreadful  things ; 
but,"  — he  stretched  himself  upward  and  clasped  his  hands, — 
"  but,  after  ye  've  killed  the  body,  there  an't  no  more  ye  can  do. 
And  oh,  there  's  all  ETERNITY  to  come,  after  that !  " 

ETERNITY,  —  the  word  thrilled  through  the  black  man's  soul 
with  light  and  power,  as  he  spoke  ;  it  thrilled  through  the  sin 
ner's  soul,  too,  like  the  bite  of  a  scorpion.  Legree  gnashed  on 
him  with  his  teeth,  but  rage  kept  him  silent ;  and  Tom,  like  a 
man  disenthralled,  spoke,  in  a  clear  and  cheerful  voice,  — 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  425 

"  Mas'r  Legree,  as  ye  bought  me,  I  '11  be  a  true  and  faithful 
servant  to  ye.  I  '11  give  ye  all  the  work  of  my  hands,  all  my 
time,  all  my  strength ;  but  my  soul  I  won't  give  up  to  mortal 
man.  I  will  hold  on  to  the  Lord,  and  put  his  commands  before 
all,  —  die  or  live  ;  you  may  be  sure  on 't.  Mas'r  Legree,  I  an't 
a  grain  afeard  to  die.  I  'd  as  soon  die  as  not.  Ye  may  whip 
me,  starve  me,  burn  me,  —  it  '11  only  send  me  sooner  where  I 
want  to  go." 

"I  '11  make  ye  give  out,  though,  'fore  I  Ve  done !  "  said  Le 
gree,  in  a  rage. 

'*  I  shall  have  help"  said  Tom  ;  "  you  '11  never  do  it." 

"  Who  the  devil 's  going  to  help  you  ?  "  said  Legree,  scorn 
fully. 

"  The  Lord  Almighty,"  said  Tom. 

"  D — n  you!  "  said  Legree,  as  with  one  blow  of  his  fist  he 
felled  Tom  to  the  earth. 

A  cold  soft  hand  fell  on  Legree's,  at  this  moment.  He  turned, 
—  it  was  Cassy's  ;  but  the  cold  soft  touch  recalled  his  dream 
of  the  night  before,  and,  flashing  through  the  chambers  of  his 
brain,  came  all  the  fearful  images  of  the  night-watches,  with  a 
portion  of  the  horror  that  accompanied  them. 

"  Will  you  be  a  fool  ?  "  said  Gassy,  in  French.  u  Let  him  go ! 
Let  me  alone  to  get  him  fit  to  be  in  the  field  again.  Is  n't  it 
just  as  I  told  you  ?  " 

They  say  the  alligator,  the  rhinoceros,  though  inclosed  in 
bullet-proof  mail,  have  each  a  spot  where  they  are  vulnerable  ; 
and  fierce,  reckless,  unbelieving  reprobates  have  commonly  this 
point  in  superstitious  dread. 

Legree  turned  away,  determined  to  let  the  point  go  for  the 
time. 

"  Well,  have  it  your  own  way,"  he  said,  doggedly,  to  Gassy. 

"  Hark,  ye !  "  he  said  to  Tom ;  "  I  won't  deal  with  ye  now, 
because  the  business  is  pressing,  and  I  want  all  my  hands  ;  but 
I  never  forget.  I  '11  score  it  against  ye,  and  some  time  I  '11  have 
mv  Pav  out  °'  yer  old  black  hide,  —  mind  ye !  " 

Legree  turned,  and  went  out. 

"  There  you  go,"  said  Gassy,  looking  darkly  after  him ; 
u  your  reckoning  's  to  come,  yet !  —  My  poor  fellow,  bow  are 
you?  " 


426  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OK, 

"  The  Lord  God  hath  sent  his  angel,  and  shut  the  lion's  mouth, 
for  this  time,"  said  Tom. 

"  For  this  time,  to  be  sure,"  said  Gassy  ;  "but  now  you  've  got 
his  ill  will  upon  you,  to  follow  you  day  in,  day  out,  hanging  like 
a  dog  on  your  throat,  —  sucking  your  blood,  bleeding  away  your 
life,  drop  by  drop.  I  know  the  man." 


LIFE   AMOlviG    THE   LOWLY.  427 


CHAPTER   XXXVIL 

LIBERTY. 

"  No  matter  with  what  solemnities  he  may  have  been  devoted  upon  the  altar  of  slavery, 
the  moment  he  touches  the  sacred  soil  of  Britain,  the  altar  and  the  God  sink  together  in 
the  dust,  and  he  stands  redeemed,  regenerated,  arid  disenthralled,  by  the  irresistible 
genius  of  universal  emancipation."  —  Cumin. 

AWHILE  we  must  leave  Tom  in  the  hands  of  his  persecutors, 
while  we  turn  to  pursue  the  fortunes  of  George  and  his  wife, 
whom  we  left  in  friendly  hands,  in  a  farm-house  on  the  road 
side. 

Tom  Loker  we  left  groaning  and  touzling  in  a  most  immacu 
lately  clean  Quaker  bed,  under  the  motherly  supervision  of  Aunt 
Dorcas,  who  found  him  to  the  fall  as  tractable  a  patient  as  a 
pick  bison. 

Imagine  a  tall,  dignified,  spiritual  woman,  whose  clear  mus 
lin  cap  shades  waves  of  silvery  hair,  parted  on  a  broad,  clear 
forehead,  which  overarches  thoughtful  gray  eyes.  A  snowy 
handkerchief  of  lisse  crape  is  folded  neatly  across  her  bosom, 
her  glossy  brown  silk  dress  rustles  peacefully,  as  she  glides  up 
and  clown  the  chamber. 

"  The  devil !  "  says  Tom  Loker,  giving  a  great  throw  to  the 
bedclothes. 

"  I  must  request  thee,  Thomas,  not  to  use  such  language," 
says  Aunt  Dorcas,  as  she  quietly  rearranged  the  bed. 

"Well,  I  won't,  granny,  if  I  can  help  it,"  says  Tom;  "but 
it  is  enough  to  make  a  fellow  swear,  —  so  cursedly  hot !  " 

Dorcas  removed  a  comforter  from  the  bed,  straightened  the 
clothes  again,  and  tucked  them  in  till  Tom  looked  something 
like  &  chrysalis  ;  remarking,  as  she  did  so,  — 

"  I  wish,  friend,  thee  would  leave  off  cursing  and  swearingT 
and  think  upon  thy  ways." 

"  What  the  devil,"  said  Tom,  "  should  I  think  of  them  for  ? 


428  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

Last  thing  ever  /  want  to  think  of,  —  hang  it  all !  "  And  Tom 
flounced  over,  untucking  and  disarranging  everything,  in  a 
manner  frightful  to  behold. 

"  That  fellow  and  gal  are  here,  I  s'pose,"  said  he,  sullenly, 
after  a  pause. 

"  They  are  so,"  said  Dorcas. 

"  They  'd  better  be  off  up  to  the  lake,"  said  Tom  ;  "  the  quicker 
the  better." 

"  Probably  they  will  do  so,"  said  Aunt  Dorcas,  knitting  peace 
fully. 

"  And  hark  ye,"  said  Tom  ;  "  we  've  got  correspondents  in 
Sandusky  that  watch  the  boats  for  us.  I  don't  care  if  I  tell, 
now.  I  hope  they  will  get  away,  just  to  spite,  Marks,  —  the 
cursed  puppy  !  —  d  —  n  him  !  " 

"  Thomas  !  "  said  Dorcas. 

"  I  tell  you,  granny,  if  you  bottle  a  fellow  up  too  tight,  I  shall 
split,"  said  Tom.  "  But  about  the  gal,  —  tell  'em  to  dress  her 
up  some  way,  so  's  to  alter  her.  Her  description  's  out  in  San- 
dusky." 

"  We  will  attend  to  that  matter,"  said  Dorcas,  with  charac 
teristic  composure. 

As  we  at  this  place  take  leave  of  Tom  Loker,  we  may  as  well 
say,  that,  having  lain  three  weeks  at  the  Quaker  dwelling,  sick 
with  a  rheumatic  fever,  which  set  in,  in  company  with  his  other 
afflictions,  Tom  arose  from  his  bed  a  somewhat  sadder  and  wiser 
man  ;  and,  in  place  of  slave-catching,  betook  himself  to  life  in 
one  of  the  new  settlements,  where  his  talents  developed  them 
selves  more  happily  in  trapping  bears,  wolves,  and  other  inhabi 
tants  of  the  forest,  in  which  he  made  himself  quite  a  name  in 
the  land.  Tom  always  spoke  reverently  of  the  Quakers.  "  Nice 
people,"  he  would  say  ;  "  wanted  to  convert  me,  but  could  n't 
come  it,  exactly.  But,  tell  ye  what,  stranger,  they  do  fix  up  a 
sick  fellow  first-rate,  —  no  mistake.  Make  jist  the  tallest  kind 
o'  broth  and  knick-knacks." 

As  Tom  had  informed  them  that  their  party  would  be  looked 
for  in  Sandusky,  it  was  thought  prudent  to  divide  them.  Jim, 
with  his  old  mother,  was  forwarded  separately  ;  and  a  night  or 
two  after,  George  and  Eliza,  with  their  child,  were  driven  pri 
vately  into  Sandusky,  and  lodged  beneath  a  hospitable  roof,  pre 
paratory  to  taking  their  last  passage  on  the  lake. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  429 

Their  night  was  now  far  spent,  and  the  morning  star  of  lib 
erty  rose  fair  before  them.  Liberty  !  —  electric  word  !  What 
is  it  ?  Is  there  anything  more  in  it  than  a  name,  —  a  rhetor 
ical  flourish  ?  Why,  men  and  women  of  America,  does  your 
heart's  blood  thrill  at  that  word,  for  which  your  fathers  bled, 
and  your  braver  mothers  were  willing  that  their  noblest  and 
best  should  die  ? 

Is  there  anything  in  it  glorious  and  dear  for  a  nation,  that  is 
not  also  glorious  and  dear  for  a  man  ?  What  is  freedom  to  a 
nation,  but  freedom  to  the  individuals  in  it?  What  is  freedom 
to  that  young  man,  who  sits  there,  with  his  arms  folded  over 
his  broad  chest,  the  tint  of  African  blood  in  his  cheek,  its  dark 
fires  in  his  eye,  —  what  is  freedom  to  George  Harris  ?  To 
your  fathers,  freedom  was  the  right  of  a  nation  to  be  a  nation. 
To  him,  it  is  the  right  of  a  man  to  be  a  man,  and  not  a  brute ; 
the  right  to  call  the  wife  of  his  bosom  his  wife,  and  to  protect 
her  from  lawless  violence  ;  the  right  to  protect  and  educate  his 
child  ;  the  right  to  have  a  home  of  his  own,  a  religion  of  his 
own,  a  character  of  his  own,  unsubject  to  the  will  of  another. 
All  these  thoughts  were  rolling  and  seething  in  George's  breast, 
as  he  was  pensively  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  watching  his 
wife,  as  she  was  adapting  to  her  slender  and  pretty  form  the 
articles  of  man's  attire,  in  which  it  was  deemed  safest  she  should 
make  her  escape. 

"  Now  for  it,"  said  she,  as  she  stood  before  the  glass,  and 
shook  down  her  silky  abundance  of  black  curly  hair.  "  I  say, 
George,  it 's  almost  a  pity,  is  n't  it,"  she  said,  as  she  held  up 
some  of  it,  playfully,  —  "  pity  it 's  all  got  to  come  off  ?  " 

George  smiled  sadly,  and  made  no  answer. 

Eliza  turned  to  the  glass,  and  the  scissors  glittered  as  one 
long  lock  after  another  was  detached  from  her  head. 

"  There,  now,  that  '11  do,"  she  said,  taking  up  a  hair-brush  ; 
u  now  for  a  few  fancy  touches." 

"  There,  an't  I  a  pretty  young  fellow  ? "  she  said,  turning 
around  to  her  husband,  laughing  and  blushing  at  the  same  time. 

"  You  always  will  be  pretty,  do  what  you  will,"  said  Q.o~— 

"What  does  make  you  so   *'J 

one  knee,  and  laying  her  ^  i  nis.     "  We  are  only  within 

twenty-four  hours  of  Cai  .         tiiey  say.    Only  a  day  and  a  night 
on  the  lake,  and  then,  —  oh,  then  !  "  — 


430  UNCLE   TOMS   CABIN;   OK, 

"  Oh,  Eliza !  "  said  George,  drawing  her  towards  him,  "  that 
is  it !  Now  my  fate  is  all  narrowing  down  to  a  point.  To  come 
so  near,  to  be  almost  in  sight,  and  then  lose  all.  I  should  never 
live  under  it,  Eliza." 

"  Don't  fear,"  said  his  wife,  hopefully.  "  The  good  Lord 
would  not  have  brought  us  so  far,  if  he  did  n't  mean  to  carry 
us  through.  I  seem  to  feel  him  with  us,  George." 

"You  are  a  blessed  woman,  Eliza!"  said  George,  clasping 
her  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  "But,  —  oh,  tell  me!  can  this 
great  mercy  be  for  us  ?  Will  these  years  and  years  of  misery 
come  to  an  end  ?  —  shall  we  be  free  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  George,"  said  Eliza,  looking  upward,  while 
tears  of  hope  and  enthusiasm  shone  on  lier  long,  dark  lashes. 
"  I  feel  it  in  me,  that  God  is  going  to  bring  us  out  of  bondage, 
this  very  day." 

"  I  will  believe  you,  Eliza,"  said  George,  rising  suddenly  up. 
"  I  will  believe,  —  come,  let 's  be  off.  Well,  indeed,"  said  he, 
holding  her  off  at  arm's  length,  and  looking  admiringly  at  her, 
"  you  are  a  pretty  little  fellow.  That  crop  of  little  short  curls 
is  quite  becoming.  Put  on  your  cap.  So,  —  a  little  to  one 
side.  I  never  saw  you  look  quite  so  pretty.  But  it 's  almost 
time  for  the  carriage  ;  —  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Smyth  has  got  Harry 
rigged  ?  " 

The  door  opened,  and  a  respectable,  middle-aged  woman  en 
tered,  leading  little  Harry,  dressed  in  girl's  clothes. 

"  What  a  pretty  girl  he  makes,"  said  Eliza,  turning  him 
round.  "  We  call  him  Harriet,  you  see  ;  —  don't  the  name  come 
nicely  ?  " 

The  child  stood  gravely  regarding  his  mother  in  her  new  and 
strange  attire,  observing  a  profound  silence,  and  occasionally 
drawing  deep  sighs,  and  peeping  at  her  from  under  his  dark 
curls. 

"  Does  Harry  know  mamma  ? "  said  Eliza,  stretching  her 
hands  toward  him. 

The  child  clung  shyly  to  the  woman. 

"  Come,  Eliza,  why  do  you  try  to  coax  him,  when  you  know 
that  he  has  got  to  be  kept  luv-ay  from  you  ?  " 

"'  I  know  it's  foolish,"  said  Eliza  ;  "yet,  I  can't  bear  to  have 
him  turn  away  from  me.  But  come,  —  where  's  my  cloak  ? 
Here,  —  how  is  it  men  put  on  cloaks,  George  ?  " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  431 

"  You  must  wear  it  so,"  said  her  husband,  throwing  it  over 
his  shoulders. 

"  So,  then,"  said  Eliza,  imitating  the  motion.  —  "  and  I  must 
stamp,  and  take  long  steps,  and  try  to  look  saucy." 

"  Don't  exert  yourself."  said  George.  ''  There  is,  now  and 
then,  a  modest  young  man  ;  and  I  think  it  would  he  easier  for 
you  to  act  that  character." 

**  And  these  gloves  !  mercy  upon  us  !  "  said  Eliza  ;  "  why,  my 
hands  are  lost  in  them." 

"  I  advise  you  to  keep  them  on  pretty  strictly,"  said  George. 
"  Your  little  slender  paw  might  bring  us  all  out.  Now,  Mrs. 
Smyth,  you  are  to  go  under  our  charge,  and  be  our  aunty,  — 
you  mind." 

"  I  've  heard,"  said  Mrs.  Smyth,  "  that  there  have  been  men 
down,  warning  all  the  packet  captains  against  a  man  and  wo 
man,  with  a  little  boy." 

u  They  have  !  "  said  George.  "  Well,  if  we  see  any*  such  peo 
ple,  we  can  tell  them." 

A  hack  now  drove  to  the  door,  and  the  friendly  family  who 
had  received  the  fugitives  crowded  around  them  with  farewell 
greetings. 

The  disguises  the  party  had  assumed  were  in  accordance  with 
the  hints  of  Tom  Loker.  Mrs.  Smyth,  a  respectable  woman 
from  the  settlement  in  Canada,  whither  they  were  fleeing,  being 
fortunately  about  crossing  the  lake  to  return  thither,  had  con 
sented  to  appear  as  the  aunt  of  little  Harry ;  and,  in  order  to 
attach  him  to  her,  he  had  been  allowed  to  remain,  the  two  last 
days,  under  her  sole  charge  ;  and  an  extra  amount  of  petting, 
joined  to  an  indefinite  amount  of  seed-cakes  and  candy,  had 
cemented  a  very  close  attachment  on  the  part  of  the  young  gen 
tleman. 

The  hack  drove  to  the  wharf.  The  two  young  men,  as  they 
appeared,  walked  up  the  plank  into  the  boat,  Eliza  gallantly  giv 
ing  her  arm  to  Mrs.  Smyth,  and  George  attending  to  their  bag 
gage. 

George  was  standing  at  the  captain's  office,  settling  for  his 
party,  when  he  overheard  two  men  talking  by  his  side. 

"  I  've  watched  every  one  that  came  on  board,"  said  one, 
"  and  I  know  they  're  not  on  this  boat." 


432  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

The  voice  was  that  of  the  clerk  of  the  boat.  The  speaker 
whom  he  addressed  was  our  sometime  friend  Marks,  who,  with 
that  valuable  perseverance  which  characterized  him,  had  come 
on  to  Sandusky,  seeking  whom  he  might  devour. 

"  You  would  scarcely  know  the  woman  from  a  white  one,"  said 
Marks.  "  The  man  is  a  very  light  mulatto  ;  he  has  a  brand  in 
one  of  his  hands." 

The  hand  with  which  George  was  taking  the  tickets  and 
change  trembled  a  little ;  but  he  turned  coolly  around,  fixed  an 
unconcerned  glance  on  the  face  of  the  speaker,  and  walked  lei 
surely  toward  another  part  of  the  boat,  where  Eliza  stood  wait 
ing  for  him. 

Mrs.  Smyth,  with  little  Harry,  sought  the  seclusion  of  the  la 
dies'  cabin,  where  the  dark  beauty  of  the  supposed  little  girl 
drew  many  flattering  comments  from  the  passengers. 

George  had  the  satisfaction,  as  the  bell  rang  out  its  farewell 
peal,  to  see  Marks  walk  down  the  plank  to  the  shore  ;  and  drew 
a  long  sigh  of  relief,  when  the  boat  had  put  a  returnless  dis 
tance  between  them. 

It  was  a  superb  day.  The  blue  waves  of  Lake  Erie  danced, 
rippling  and  sparkling,  in  the  sunlight.  A  fresh  breeze  blew 
from  the  shore,  and  the  lordly  boat  ploughed  her  way  right  gal 
lantly  onward. 

Oh,  what  an  untold  world  there  is  in  one  human  heart !  Who 
thought,  as  George  walked  calmly  up  and  down  the  deck  of  the 
steamer,  with  his  shy  companion  at  his  side,  of  all  that  was  burn 
ing  in  his  bosom  ?  The  mighty  good  that  seemed  approaching 
seemed  too  good,  too  fair,  even  to  be  a  reality;  and  he  felt  a 
jealous  dread,  every  moment  of  the  day,  that  something  would 
rise  to  snatch  it  from  him. 

But  the  boat  swept  on.  Hours  fleeted,  and,  at  last,  clear  and 
full  rose  the  blessed  English  shores ;  shores  charmed  by  a 
mighty  spell,  —  with  one  touch  to  dissolve  every  incantation  of 
slavery,  no  matter  in  what  language  pronounced,  or  by  what 
national  power  confirmed. 

George  and  his  wife  stood  arm  in  arm,  as  the  boat  neared  the 
small  town  of  Amherstburg,  in  Canada.  His  breath  grew  thick 
and  short ;  a  mist  gathered  before  his  eyes ;  he  silently  pressed 
the  little  hand  that  lay  trembling  on  his  arrn.  The  bell  rang ; 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  433 

the  boat  stopped.  Scarcely  seeing  what  he  did,  he  looked  out 
his  baggage,  and  gathered  his  little  party.  The  little  company 
were  landed  on  the  shore.  They  stood  still  till  the  boat  had 
cleared  ;  and  then,  with  tears  and  erabracings,  the  husband  and 
wife,  with  their  wondering  child  in  their  arms,  knelt  down  and 
lifted  up  their  hearts  to  God  ! 

"  'T  was  something  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life  ; 

From  the  grave's  cerements  to  the  robes  of  heaven; 
From  siu's  dominion,  and  from  passion's  strife, 

To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven ; 

Where  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven, 
And  mortal  puts  on  immortality, 
When  Mercy's  hand  hath  turned  the  golden  key, 
And  Mercy's  voice  hath  said,  Rejoice,  thy  soul  is  free." 

The  little  party  were  soon  guided,  by  Mrs.  Smyth,  to  the 
hospitable  abode  of  a  good  missionary,  whom  Christian  charity 
has  placed  here  as  a  shepherd  to  the  outcast  and  wandering, 
who  are  constantly  finding  an  asylum  on  this  shore. 

Who  can  speak  the  blessedness  of  that  first  day  of  freedom  ? 
Is  not  the  sense  of  liberty  a  higher  and  a  finer  one  than  any  of 
the  five  ?  To  move,  speak,  and  breathe,  —  go  out  and  come  in 
unwatched,  and  free  from  danger  !  Who  can  speak  the  bless 
ings  of  that  rest  which  comes  down  on  the  free  man's  pillow, 
under  laws  which  insure  to  him  the  rights  that  God  has  given 
to  man  ?  How  fair  and  precious  to  that  mother  was  that  sleep 
ing  child's  face,  endeared  by  the  memory  of  a  thousand  dan 
gers  !  How  impossible  was  it  to  sleep,  in  the  exuberant  posses 
sion  of  such  blessedness !  And  yet,  these  two  had  not  one  acre 
of  ground,  —  not  a  roof  that  they  could  call  their  own,  —  they 
had  spent  their  all,  to  the  last  dollar.  They  had  nothing  more 
than  the  birds  of  the  air,  or  the  flowers  of  the  field,  —  yet  they 
could  not  sleep  for  joy.  "  Oh,  ye  who  take  freedom  from  mail, 
with  what  words  shall  ye  answer  it  to  God  ?  " 


434  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE   VICTORY. 

"  Thanks  be  unto  God,  who  giveth  us  the  victory." 

HAVE  not  many  of  us,  in  the  weary  way  of  life,  felt,  in  some 
hours,  how  far  easier  it  were  to  die  than  to  live  ? 

The  martyr,  when  faced  even  by  a  death  of  bodily  anguish 
and  horror,  finds  in  the  very  terror  of  his  doom  a  strong  stimu 
lant  and  tonic.  There  is  a  vivid  excitement,  a  thrill  and  fer 
vor,  which  may  carry  through  any  crisis  of  suffering  that  is  the 
birth-hour  of  eternal  glory  and  rest. 

But  to  live,  —  to  wear  on,  day  after  day,  of  mean,  bitter,  low, 
harassing  servitude,  every  nerve  dampened  and  depressed,  every 
power  of  feeling  gradually  smothered, — this  long  and  wasting 
heart-martyrdom,  this  slow,  daily  bleeding  away  of  the  inward 
life,  drop  by  drop,  hour  after  hour,  —  this  is  the  true  searching 
test  of  what  there  may  be  in  man  or  woman. 

When  Tom  stood  face  to  face  with  his  persecutor,  and  heard 
his  threats,  and  thought  in  his  very  soul  that  his  hour  was  come, 
his  heart  swelled  bravely  in  him,  and  he  thought  he  could  bear 
torture  and  fire,  bear  anything  with  the  vision  of  Jesus  and 
heaven  but  just  a  step  beyond ;  but,  when  he  was  gone,  and  the 
present  excitement  passed  off,  came  back  the  pain  of  his  bruised 
and  weary  limbs,  —  came  back  the  sense  of  his  utterly  degraded, 
hopeless,  forlorn  estate ;  and  the  day  passed  wearily  enough. 

Long  before  his  wounds  were  healed,  Legree  insisted  that  he 
should  be  put  to  the  regular  field-work ;  and  then  came  day 
after  day  of  pain  and  weariness,  aggravated  by  every  kind  of 
injustice  and  indignity  that  the  ill-will  of  a  mean  and  malicious 
mind  could  devise.  Whoever,  in  our  circumstances,  has  made 
trial  of  pain,  even  with  all  the  alleviations  which,  for  us,  usually 
attend  it,  must  know  the  irritation  that  comes  with  it.  Tom  no 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLT.  435 

longer  wondered  at  the  habitual  surliness  of  his  associates ;  nay, 
he  found  the  placid,  sunny  temper,  which  had  been  the  habitude 
of  his  life,  broken  in  on,  and  sorely  strained,  by  the  inroads  of 
the  same  thing.  He  had  flattered  himself  on  leisure  to  read 
his  Bible  ;  but  there  was  no  such  thing  as  leisure  there.  In  the 
height  of  the  season,  Legree  did  not  hesitate  to  press  all  his 
hands  through,  Sundays  and  week-days  alike.  Why  should  n't 
he  ?  —  he  made  more  cotton  by  it,  and  gained  his  wager ;  and  if 
it  wore  out  a  few  more  hands,  he  could  buy  better  ones.  At 
first,  Tom  used  to  read  a  verse  or  two  of  his-  Bible,  by  the  flicker 
of  the  fire,  after  he  had  returned  from  his  daily  toil ;  but,  after 
the  cruel  treatment  he  received,  he  used  to  come  home  so  ex 
hausted,  that  his  head  swam  and  his  eyes  failed  when  he  tried 
to  read  ;  and  he  was  fain  to  stretch  himself  down,  with  the 
others,  in  utter  exhaustion. 

Is  it  strange  that  the  religious  peace  and  trust,  which  had 
upborne  him  hitherto,  should  give  way  to  tossings  of  soul  and 
despondent  darkness  ?  The  gloomiest  problem  of  this  myste 
rious  life  was  constantly  before  his  eyes,  —  souls  crushed  and 
ruined,  evil  triumphant,  and  God  silent.  It  was  weeks  and 
months  that  Tom  wrestled,  in  his  own  soul,  in  darkness  and 
sorrow.  He  thought  of  Miss  Ophelia's  letter  to  his  Kentucky 
friends,  and  would  pray  earnestly  that  God  would  send  him 
deliverance.  And  then  he  would  watch,  day  after  day,  in  the 
vague  hope  of  seeing  somebody  sent  to  redeem  him ;  and,  when 
nobody  came,  he  would  crush  back  to  his  soul  bitter  thoughts, 
—  that  it  was  vain  to  serve  God,  that  God  had  forgotten  him. 
He  sometimes  saw  Gassy ;  and  sometimes,  when  summoned  to 
the  house,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  dejected  form  of  Emmeline, 
but  held  very  little  communion  with  either ;  in  fact,  there  was 
no  time  for  him  to  commune  with  anybody. 

One  evening,  he  was  sitting,  in  utter  dejection  and  prostra 
tion,  by  a  few  decaying  brands,  where  his  coarse  supper  was 
baking.  He  put  a  few  bits  of  brushwood  on  the  fire,  and  strove 
to  raise  the  light,  and  then  drew  his  worn  Bible  from  his  pocket. 
There  were  all  the  marked  passages,  which  had  thrilled  his  soul 
so  often,  —  words  of  patriarchs  and  seers,  poets  and  sages,  who 
from  early  time  had  spoken  courage  to  man,  —  voices  from  the 
great  cloud  of  witnesses  who  ever  surround  us  in  the  race  of 


436  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

life.  Had  the  word  lost  its  power,  or  could  the  failing  eye  and 
weary  sense  no  longer  answer  to  the  touch  of  that  mighty  in 
spiration  ?  Heavily  sighing,  he  put  it  in  his  pocket.  A  coarse 
laugh  roused  him  ;  he  looked  up,  —  Legree  was  standing  oppo 
site  to  him. 

"  Well,  old  boy,"  he  said,  "you  find  your  religion  don't  work,, 
it  seems !  I  thought  I  shoulr1  get  that  through  your  wool,  at 
last :  " 

The  cruel  taunt  was  more  than  hunger  and  cold  and  naked 
ness.  Tom  was  silent. 

"  You  were  a  fool,"  said  Legree ;  "  for  I  meant  to  do  well  by 
you,  when  I  bought  you.  You  might  have  been  better  off  than 
Sambo,  or  Quimbo  either,  and  had  easy  times ;  and,  instead  of 
getting  cut  up  and  thrashed,  every  day  or  two,  ye  might  have 
had  liberty  to  lord  it  round,  and  cut  up  the  other  niggers ;  and 
ye  might  have  had,  now  and  then,  a  good  warming  of  whiskey 
punch.  Come,  Tom,  don't  you  think  you  'd  better  be  reason 
able  ?  —  heave  that  ar  old  pack  of  trash  in  the  fire,  and  join 
my  church!  " 

"  The  Lord  forbid  !  "  said  Tom,  fervently. 

"  You  see  the  Lord  an't  going  to  help  you ;  if  he  had  been, 
he  would  n't  have  let  me  get  you !  This  yer  religion  is  all  a 
mess  of  lying  trumpery,  Tom.  I  know  all  about  it.  Ye  'd  bet 
ter  hold  to  me.  I  'm  somebody,  and  can  do  something !  " 

"  No,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  '11  hold  on.  The  Lord  may  help 
me,  or  not  help ;  but  I  '11  hold  to  him,  and  believe  him  to  the 
last ! " 

"  The  more  fool  you  !  "  said  Legree,  spitting  scornfully  at 
him,  and  spurning  him  with  his  foot.  "  Never  mind ;  1 11  chase 
you  down,  yet,  and  bring  you  under,  —  you  '11  see  !  "  and  Legree 
turned  away. 

When  a  heavy  weight  presses  the  soul  to  the  lowest  level  at 
which  endurance  is  possible,  there  is  an  instant  and  desperate 
effort  of  every  physical  and  moral  nerve  to  throw  off  the  weight ; 
and  hence  the  heaviest  anguish  often  precedes  a  return  tide  of 
joy  and  courage.  So  was  it  now  with  Tom.  The  atheistic 
taunts  of  his  cruel  master  sunk  his  before  dejected  soul  to  the 
lowest  ebb ;  and,  though  the  hand  of  faith  still  held  to  the  eter 
nal  rock,  it  was  with  a  numb,  despairing  grasp.  Tom  sat,  like  on* 


LIFE   AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  437 

stunned,  at  the  fire.  Suddenly  everything  around  him  seemed 
to  fade,  and  a  vision  rose  before  him  of  one  crowned  with  thorns, 
buffeted  and  bleeding.  Tom  gazed,  in  awe  and  wonder,  at  the 
majestic  patience  of  the  face ;  the  deep,  pathetic  eyes  thrilled 
him  to  his  inmost  heart ;  his  soul  woke,  as,  with  floods  of  emo 
tion,  he  stretched  out  his  hands  and  fell  upon  his  knees,  —  when, 
gradually,  the  vision  changed :  the  sharp  thorns  became  rays  of 
glory ;  and,  in  splendor  inconceivable,  he  saw  that  same  face 
bending  compassionately  towards  him,  and  a  voice  said,  "He 
that  overcometh  shall  sit  down  with  me  on  my  throne,  even  as  I 
also  overcame,  and  am  set  down  with  my  Father  on  his  throne." 
How  long  Tom  lay  there  he  knew  not.  When  he  came  to 
himself,  the  fire  was  gone  out,  his  clothes  were  wet  with  the 
chill  and  drenching  dews ;  but  the  dread  soul-crisis  was  past, 
and,  in  the  joy  that  filled  him,  he  no  longer  felt  hunger,  cold, 
degradation,  disappointment,  wretchedness.  From  his  deepest 
soul,  he  that  hour  loosed  and  parted  from  every  hope  in  the  life 
that  now  is,  and  offered  his  own  will  an  unquestioning  sacrifice 
to  the  Infinite.  Tom  looked  up  to  the  silent,  ever-living  stars, 
—  types  of  the  angelic  hosts  who  ever  look  down  on  man  \  and 
the  solitude  of  the  night  rung  with  the  triumphant  words  of  a 
hymn,  which  he  had  sung  often  in  happier  days,  but  never  with 
such  feeling  as  now :  — 

"The  earth  shall  be  dissolved  like  snow, 

The  sun  shall  cease  to  shine; 
But  God,  who  called  me  here  below, 
Shall  be  forever  mine. 

"And  when  this  mortal  life  shall  fail, 

And  flesh  and  sense  shall  cease, 
I  shall  possess  within  the  veil 
A  life  of  joy  and  peace. 

•'  When  we  've  been  there  ten  thousand  years, 

Bright  shining  like  the  sun, 
We  've  no  less  days  to  sing  God's  praise, 
Than  when  we  first  begun." 

Those  who  have  been  familiar  with  the  religious  histories  of 
the  slave  population  know  that  relations  like  what  we  have  nar 
rated  are  very  common  among  them.  We  have  heard  some 
from  their  own  lips,  of  a  very  touching  and  affecting  character, 


438  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

The  psychologist  tells  us  of  a  state,  in  which  the  affections  and 
images  of  the  mind  become  so  dominant  and  overpowering,  that 
they  press  into  their  service  the  outward  senses,  and  make  them 
give  tangible  shape  to  the  inward  imagining.  Who  shall  meas 
ure  what  an  all-pervading  Spirit  may  do  with  these  capabilities 
of  our  mortality,  or  the  ways  in  which  he  may  encourage  the 
desponding  souls  of  the  desolate  ?  If  the  poor  forgotten  slave 
believes  that  Jesus  hath  appeared  and  spoken  to  him,  who  shall 
contradict  him  ?  Did  He  not  say  that  his  mission,  in  all  ages, 
was  to  bind  up  the  broken-hearted,  and  set  at  liberty  them  that 
are  bruised  ? 

"When  the  dim  gray  of  dawn  woke  the  slumberers  to  go  forth 
to  the  field,  there  was  among  those  tattered  and  shivering 
wretches  one  who  walked  with  an  exultant  tread ;  for,  firmer 
than  the  ground  he  trod  on  was  his  strong  faith  in  Almighty, 
eternal  love.  Ah,  Legree,  try  all  your  forces  now !  Utmost 
agony,  woe,  degradation,  want,  and  loss  of  all  things,  shall  only 
hasten  on  the  process  by  which  he  shall  be  made  a  king  and  a 
priest  unto  God ! 

From  this  time,  an  inviolable  sphere  of  peace  encompassed 
the  lowly  heart  of  the  oppressed  one,  —  an  ever-present  Saviour 
hallowed  it  as  a  temple.  Past  now  the  bleeding  of  earthly  re 
grets  ;  past  its  fluctuations  of  hope,  and  fear,  and  desire ;  the 
human  will,  bent,  and  bleeding,  and  struggling  long,  was  now 
entirely  merged  in  the  Divine.  So  short  now  seemed  the  re 
maining  voyage  of  life,  —  so  near,  so  vivid,  seemed  eternal 
blessedness,  —  that  life's  uttermost  woes  fell  from  him  unbann 
ing. 

All  noticed  the  change  in  his  appearance.  Cheerfulness  and 
alertness  seemed  to  return  to  him,  and  a  quietness  which  no  in 
sult  or  injury  could  ruffie  seemed  to  possess  him. 

"  What  the  devil  s  got  into  Tom  ?  "  Legree  said  to  Sambo. 
"  Awhile  ago  he  was  all  down  in  the  mouth,  and  now  he  's  peart 
as  a  cricket." 

"  Dunno,  Mas'r ;  gwine  to  run  off,  mebbe." 

"  Like  to  see  him  try  that,"  said  Legree,  with  a  savage  grinf 
"  would  n't  we,  Sambo  ?  " 

"  Guess  we  would !  Haw !  haw !  ho !  "  said  the  sooty  gnome, 
laughing  obsequiously.  "  Lord,  de  fun !  To  see  him  stickir' 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  439 

in  de  mud,  —  chasin'  and  tarin'  through  de  bushes,  dogs  a  hold- 
in'  on  to  him !  Lord,  I  laughed  fit  to  split,  dat  ar  time  we 
cotched  Molly.  I  thought  they  'd  a  had  her  all  stripped  up 
afore  I  could  get  'em  off.  She  car's  de  marks  o'  dat  ar  spree 
yet." 

"  I  reckon  she  will,  to  her  grave,"  said  Legree.  "  But  now, 
Sambo,  you  look  sharp.  If  the  nigger  's  got  anything  of  this 
sort  going,  trip  him  up." 

"  Mas'r,  let  me  'lone  for  dat,"  said  Sambo.  "  I  '11  tree  de 
coon.  Ho,  ho,  ho !  " 

This  was  spoken  as  Legree  was  getting  on  to  his  horse,  to  go 
to  the  neighboring  town.  That  night,  as  he  was  returning,  he 
thought  he  would  turn  his  horse  and  ride  round  the  quarters, 
and  see  if  all  was  safe. 

It  was  a  superb  moonlight  night,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
graceful  China-trees  lay  minutely  pencilled  on  the  turf  below, 
and  there  was  that  transparent  stillness  in  the  air  which  it 
seems  almost  unholy  to  disturb.  Legree  was  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  quarters,  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  some  one  sing 
ing.  It  was  not  a  usual  sound  there,  and  he  paused  to  listen. 
A  musical  tenor  voice  sang,  — 

41  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies, 
1  '11  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 
And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes. 

"  Should  earth  against  my  soul  engage, 

And  hellish  darts  be  hurled, 

Then  I  can  smile  at  Satan's  rage, 

And  face  a  frowning  world. 

"Let  cares  like  a  wild  deluge  come, 

And  storms  of  sorrow  fall, 
May  I  but  safely  reach  my  home, 
My  God,  my  Heaven,  my  All." 

"So  ho!"  said  Legree  to  himself,  "he  thinks  so,  does  he? 
How  I  hate  these  cursed  Methodist  hymns !  Here,  you  nigger," 
said  he,  coming  suddenly  out  upon  Tom,  and  raising  his  riding- 
whip,  "how  dare  you  be  gettin'  up  this  yer  row,  when  you 
ought  to  be  in  bed  ?  Shut  yer  old  black  gash,  and  get  along  in 
with  you!  " 


440  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  with  ready  cheerfulness,  as  he  rose 
to  go  in. 

Legree  was  provoked  beyond  measure  by  Tom's  evident  hap 
piness  ;  and,  riding  up  to  him,  belabored  him  over  his  head  and 
shoulders. 

"  There,  you  dog,"  he  said,  "  see  if  you  '11  feel  so  comfort 
able  after  that!  " 

But  the  blows  fell  now  only  on  the  outer  man,  and  not,  as  be 
fore,  on  the  heart.  Tom  stood  perfectly  submissive ;  and  yet 
Legree  could  not  hide  from  himself  that  his  power  over  his 
bond  thrall  was  somehow  gone.  And,  as  Tom  disappeared  in 
his  cabin,  and  he  wheeled  his  horse  suddenly  round,  there 
passed  through  his  mind  one  of  those  vivid  flashes  that  often 
send  the  lightning  of  conscience  across  the  dark  and  wicked 
soul.  He  understood  full  well  that  it  was  GOD  who  was  stand 
ing  between  him  and  his  victim,  and  he  blasphemed  him.  That 
submissive  and  silent  man,  whom  taunts,  nor  threats,  nor  stripes, 
nor  cruelties  could  disturb,  roused  a  voice  within  him,  such  as 
of  old  his  Master  roused  in  the  demoniac  soul,  saying,  "  What 
have  we  to  do  with  thee,  thou  Jesus  of  Nazareth  ?  —  art  thou 
come  to  torment  us  before  the  time  ?  " 

Tom's  whole  soul  overflowed  with  compassion  and- sympathy 
for  the  poor  wretches  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  To  him  it 
seemed  as  if  his  life  sorrows  were  now  over,  and  as  if,  out  of 
that  strange  treasury  of  peace  and  joy,  with  which  he  had  been 
endowed  from  above,  he  longed  to  pour  out  something  for  the 
relief  of  their  woes.  It  is  true,  opportunities  were  scanty  ;  but, 
on  the  way  to  the  fields,  and  back  again,  and  during  the  hours 
of  labor,  chances  fell  in  his  way  of  extending  a  helping  hand  to 
the  weary,  the  disheartened  and  discouraged.  The  poor,  worn- 
down,  brutalized  creatures,  at  iirst,  could  scarce  comprehend 
this ;  but,  when  it  was  continued  week  after  week,  and  month 
after  month,  it  began  to  awaken  long-silent  chords  in  their  be 
numbed  hearts.  Gradually  and  imperceptibly  the  strange,  si 
lent,  patient  man,  who  was  ready  to  bear  every  one's  burden, 
and  sought  help  from  none,  —  who  stood  aside  for  all,  and 
came  last,  and  took  least,  yet  was  foremost  to  share  his  little 
all  with  any  who  needed,  —  the  man  who,  in  cold  nights,  would 
give  up  his  tattered  blanket  to  add  to  the  comfort  of  some 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  441 

woman  who  shivered  with  sickness,  and  who  filled  the  baskets 
of  the  weaker  ones  in  the  field,  at  the  terrible  risk  of  coming 
•short  in  his  own  measure,  —  and  who,  though  pursued  with  un 
relenting  cruelty  by  their  common  tyrant,  never  joined  in  utter 
ing  a  word  of  reviling  or  cursing,  —  this  man,  at  last,  began  to 
have  a  strange  power  over  them  ;  and,  when  the  more  pressing 
season  was  past,  and  they  were  allowed  again  their  Sundays  for 
their  own  use,  many  would  gather  together  to  hear  from  him 
of  Jesus.  They  would  gladly  have  met  to  hear,  and  pray,  and 
sing,  in  some  place,  together ;  but  Legree  would  not  permit  it, 
and  more  than  once  broke  up  such  attempts,  with  oaths  and 
brutal  execrations,  —  so  that  the  blessed  news  had  to  circulate 
from  individual  to  individual.  Yet  who  can  speak  the  simple 
joy  with  which  some  of  these  poor  outcasts,  to  whom  life  was  a 
joyless  journey  to  a  dark  unknown,  heard  of  a  compassionate 
Redeemer  and  a  heavenly  home?  It  is  the  statement  of 
missionaries,  that,  of  all  races  of  the  earth,  none  have  received 
the  Gospel  with  such  eager  docility  as  the  African.  The  prin- 
ci£le_of  reliance  and  unquestioning  faith,  which  is  its  foundation, 
is  more  a  native  element  in  this  race  than  any  other ;  and  it  has 
often  been  found  among  them,  that  a  stray  seed  of  truth,  borne 
en  some  breeze  of  accident  into  hearts  the  most  ignorant,  has 
sprung  up  into  fruit,  whose  abundance  has  shamed  that  of 
higher  and  more  skilful  culture. 

The  poor  mulatto  woman,  whose  simple  faith  had  been  well- 
nigh  crushed  and  overwhelmed  by  the  avalanche  of  cruelty  and 
wrong  which  had  fallen  upon  her,  felt  her  soul  raised  up  by  the 
hymns  and  passages  of  Holy  Writ,  which  this  lowly  mission 
ary  breathed  into  her  ear  in  intervals,  as  they  were  going  to 
and  returning  from  work ;  and  even  the  half-crazed  and  wan 
dering  mind  of  Gassy  was  soothed  and  calmed  by  his  simple 
and  unobtrusive  influences. 

Stung  to  madness  and  despair  by  the  crushing  agonies  of  a 
life,  Gassy  had  often  resolved  in  her  soul  an  hour  of  retribution, 
when  her  hand  should  avenge  on  her  oppressor  all  the  injustice 
and  cruelty  to  which  she  had  been  witness,  or  which  she  had  in 
her  own  person  suffered. 

One  night,  after  all  in  Tom's  cabin  were  sunk  in  sleep,  h# 
was  suddenly  aroused  by  seeing  her  face  at  the  hole  between  the 


4:42  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

logs,  that  served  for  a  window.  She  made  a  silent  gesture  for 
him  to  come  out. 

Tom  came  out  the  door.  It  was  between  one  and  two  o'clock 
at  night,  —  broad,  calm,  still  moonlight.  Tom  remarked,  as 
the  light  of  the  moon  fell  upon  Cassy's  large  black  eyes,  that 
there  was  a  wild  and  peculiar  glare  in  them,  unlike  their  wonted 
fixed  despair. 

"  Come  here,  Father  Tom,"  she  said,  laying  her  small  hand 
on  his  wrist,  and  drawing  him  forward  with  a  force  as  if  th« 
hand  were  of  steel ;  "  come  here,  —  I  've  news  for  you." 

"  What,  Misse  Gassy  ?  "  said  Tom,  anxiously. 

"  Tom,  would  n't  you  like  your  liberty  ?  " 

"  I  shall  have  it,  Misse,  in  God's  time,"  said  Tom. 

"  Ay,  but  you  may  have  it  to-night,"  said  Gassy,  with  a  flash 
of  sudden  energy.  "  Come  on." 

Tom  hesitated. 

"  Come !  "  said  she,  in  a  whisper,  fixing  her  black  eyes  on 
him.  "  Come  along !  He  's  asleep  —  sound.  I  put  enough  into 
his  brandy  to  keep  him  so.  I  wish  I  'd  had  more,  —  I 
should  n't  have  wanted  you.  But  come,  the  back  door  is  un 
locked  ;  there  's  an  axe  there,  I  put  it  there,  —  his  room  door  is 
open  ;  I  '11  show  you  the  way.  I  'd  a  done  it  myself,  only  my 
arms  are  so  weak.  Come  along !  " 

"  Not  for  ten  thousand  worlds,  Misse  !  "  said  Tom,  firmly, 
stopping  and  holding  her  back,  as  she  was  pressing  forward. 

"  But  think  of  all  these  poor  creatures,"  said  Gassy.  "  We 
might  set  them  all  free,  and  go  somewhere  in  the  swamps,  and 
find  an  island,  and  live  by  ourselves  ;  I  Ve  heard  of  its  being 
done.  Any  life  is  better  than  this." 

"  No  !  "  said  Tom,  firmly.  "  No  !  good  never  comes  of  wick 
edness.  I  'd  sooner  chop  my  right  hand  off  !  " 

"  Then  I  shall  do  it,"  said  Gassy,  turning. 

"  Oh,  Misse  Gassy  !  "  said  Tom,  throwing  himself  before  her, 
"  for  the  dear  Lord's  sake  that  died  for  ye,  don't  sell  your  pre 
cious  soul  to  the  devil,  that  way !  Nothing  but  evil  will  come 
of  it.  The  Lord  has  n't  called  us  to  wrath.  We  must  suffer, 
and  wait  his  time." 

"  Wait !  "  said  Gassy.  u  Have  n't  I  waited  ?  —  waited  till  my 
head  is  dizzy  and  my  heart  sick  ?  What  has  he  made  me 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  443 

suffer  ?  What  has  he  made  hundreds  of  poor  creatures  suffer  ? 
Is  n't  he  wringing  the  life-blood  out  of  you  ?  I  'm  called  on  ; 
they  call  me  !  His  time 's  come,  and  1 11  have  his  heart's 
blood ! " 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  said  Tom,  holding  her  small  hands,  which 
were  clenched  with  spasmodic  violence.  "No,  ye  poor,  lost 
soul,  that  ye  must  n't  do.  The  dear,  blessed  Lord  never  shed 
no  blood  but  his  own,  and  that  he  poured  out  for  us  when  we 
was  enemies.  Lord,  help  us  to  follow  his  steps,  and  love  our 
enemies." 

"  Love !  "  said  Gassy,  with  a  fierce  glare ;  "  love  such  ene 
mies  !  It  is  n't  in  flesh  and  blood." 

"  No,  Misse,  it  is  n't,"  said  Tom,  looking  up  ;  "  but  He  gives 
it  to  us,  and  that 's  the  victory.  When  we  can  love  and  pray 
over  all,  and  through  all,  the  battle  's  past,  and  the  victory  's 
come,  —  glory  be  to  God ! '  And,  with  streaming  eyes  and 
choking  voice  the  black  man  looked  up  to  heaven. 

And  this,  O  Africa !  latest  called  of  nations,  —  called  to  the 
crown  of  thorns,  the  scourge,  the  bloody  sweat,  the  cross  of 
agony,  —  this  is  to  be  thy  victory  ;  by  this  shalt  thou  reign  with 
Christ  wAien  his  kingdom  shall  come  on  earth. 

The  deep  fervor  of  Tom's  feelings,  the  softness  of  his  voice, 
his  tears,  fell  like  dew  on  the  wild,  unsettled  spirit  of  the  poor 
woman.  A  softness  gathered  over  the  lurid  fires  of  her  eyes  ; 
she  looked  down,  and  Tom  could  feel  the  relaxing  muscles  of 
her  hands,  as  she  said,  — 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  that  evil  spirits  followed  me  ?  Oh, 
Father  Tom,  I  can't  pray,  —  I  wish  I  could.  I  never  have 
prayed  since  my  children  were  sold !  What  you  say  must  be 
right,  I  know  it  must ;  but  when  I  try  to  pray,  I  can  only  hate 
and  curse.  I  can't  pray !  " 

"  Poor  soul !  "  said  Tom,  compassionately.  "  Satan  desires 
fco  have  ye,  and  sift  ye  as  wheat.  I  pray  the  Lord  for  ye.  Oh, 
Misse  Cassy,  turn  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus.  He  came  to  bind 
up  the  broken-hearted,  and  comfort  all  that  mourn." 

Cassy  stood  silent,  while  large,  heavy  tears  dropped  from  her 
downcast  eyes. 

"  Misse  Cassy,"  said  Tom,  in  a  hesitating  tone,  after  survey 
ing  her  a  moment  in  silence,  "  if  ye  only  could  get  away  from 


444  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

here,  —  if  the  thing  was  possible,  —  I  'd  Vise  ye  and  Emme- 
line  to  do  it ;  that  is,  if  ye  could  go  without  hlood-guiltiness,  — 
not  otherwise." 

"  Would  you  try  it  with  us,  Father  Tom  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tom ;  **  time  was  when  I  would ;  but  the  Lord  's 
given  me  a  work  among  these  yer  poor  souls,  and  I  '11  stay  with 
'em  and  bear  my  cross  with  'em  till  the  end.  It 's  different  with 
you ;  it 's  a  snare  to  you,  —  it 's  more  'n  you  can  stand,  —  and 
you  'd  better  go,  if  you  can." 

"  I  know  no  way  but  through  the  grave,"  said  Gassy.  "  There  's 
np  beast  or  bird  but  can  find  a  home  somewhere  ;  even  the  snakes 
and  the  alligators  have  their  places  to  lie  down  and  be  quiet ; 
but  there  's  no  place  for  us.  Down  in  the  darkest  swamps  their 
dogs  will  hunt  us  out,  and  find  us.  Everybody  and  everything 
is  against  us  ;  even  the  very  beasts  side  against  us,  —  and  where 
shall  we  go  ?  " 

Tom  stood  silent ;  at  length  he  said,  — 

"  Him  that  saved  Daniel  in  the  den  of  lions,  —  that  saved 
the  children  in  the  fiery  furnace,  —  Him  that  walked  on  the 
sea,  and  bade  the  winds  be  still,  —  He  's  alive  yet ;  and  I  Ve 
faith  to  believe  he  can  deliver  you.  Try  it,  and  I  '11  pray,  with 
all  my  might,  for  you." 

By  what  strange  law  of  mind  is  it  that  an  idea  long  over 
looked,  and  trodden  underfoot  as  a  useless  stone,  suddenly  spar 
kles  out  in  new  light,  as  a  discovered  diamond  ? 

Cassy  had  often  revolved,  for  hours,  all  possible  or  probable 
schemes  of  escape,  and  dismissed  them  all,  as  hopeless  and  im 
practicable  ;  but  at  this  moment  there  flashed  through  her  mind 
a  plan,  so  simple  and  feasible  in  all  its  details,  as  to  awaken  an 
instant  hope. 

"Father  Tom,  I '11  try  it !  "  she  said,  suddenly. 

"  Amen  !  "  said  Tom ;  "  the  Lord  help  ye  !  " 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  145 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE    STRATAGEM. 

"The  way  of  the  wicked  is  as  darkness  ;  he  knoweth  not  at  what  he  stumbleth.' 

THE  garret  of  the  house  that  Legree  occupied,  like  most  other 
garrets,  was  a  great,  desolate  space,  dusty,  hung  with  cobwebs, 
and  littered  with  cast-off  lumber.  The  opulent  family  that  had 
inhabited  the  house  in  the  days  of  its  splendor  had  imported  a 
great  deal  of  splendid  furniture,  some  of  which  they  had  taken 
away  with  them,  while  some  remained  standing  desolate  in 
mouldering,  unoccupied  rooms,  or  stored  away  in  this  place. 
One  or  two  immense  packing-boxes,  in  which  this  furniture  was 
brought,  stood  against  the  sides  of  the  garret.  There  was  a 
small  window  there,  which  let  in,  through  its  dingy,  dusty  panes, 
a  scanty,  uncertain  light  on  the  tall,  high-backed  chairs  and 
dusty  tables,  that  had  once  seen  better  days.  Altogether,  it 
was  a  weird  and  ghostly  place  ;  but,  ghostly  as  it  was,  it  wanted 
not  in  legends  among  the  superstitious  negroes,  to  increase  its 
terrors.  Some  few  years  before,  a  negro  woman,  who  had  in 
curred  Legree's  displeasure,  was  confined  there  for  several 
weeks.  What  passed  there,  we  do  not  say ;  the  negroes  used 
to  whisper  darkly  to  each  other  ;  but  it  was  known  that  the  body 
of  the  unfortunate  creature  was  one  day  taken  down  from  there 
and  buried  ;  and,  after  that,  it  was  said  that  oaths  and  curs 
ings,  and  the  sound  of  violent  blows,  used  to  ring  through  that 
old  garret,  and  mingled  with  wailings  and  groans  of  despair. 
Once,  when  Legree  chanced  to  overhear  something  of  this  kind, 
he  flew  into  a  violent  passion,  and  swore  that  the  next  one  that 
told  stories  about  that  garret  should  have  an  opportunity  of 
knowing  what  was  there,  for  he  would  chain  them  up  there  for 
a  week.  This  hint  was  enough  to  repress  talking,  though,  of 
course,  it  did  not  disturb  the  credit  of  the  story  in  the  least. 
Gradually,  the  staircase  that  led  to  the  garret,  and  even  the 


446  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

passage-way  to  the  staircase,  was  avoided  by  every  one  in  the 
house,  from  every  one  fearing  to  speak  of  it,  and  the  legend  was 
gradually  falling  into  desuetude.  It  had  suddenly  occurred  to 
Gassy  to  make  use  of  the  superstitious  excitability,  which  was  so 
great  in  Legree,  for  the  purpose  of  her  liberation,  and  that  of  her 
fellow-sufferer. 

The  sleeping-room  of  Gassy  was  directly  under  the  garret 
One  day,  without  consulting  Legree,  she  suddenly  took  it  upon 
her,  with  some  considerable  ostentation,  to  change  all  the  furni 
ture  and  appurtenances  of  the  room  to  one  at  some  considerable 
distance.  The  under-servants,  who  were  called  on  to  effect  this 
movement,  were  running  and  bustling  about  with  great  zeal  and 
confusion,  when  Legree  returned  from  a  ride. 

"  Hallo  !  you  Cass  !  "  said  Legree,  tl  what 's  in  the  wind  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing  ;  only  I  choose  to  have  another  room,"  said  Gassy, 
doggedly. 

"  And  what  for,  pray  ?  "  said  Legree. 

"  I  choose  to,"  said  Gassy. 

"  The  devil  you  do  !  and  what  for  ?  " 

"  I  'd  like  to  get  some  sleep,  now  and  then." 

"  Sleep  !  well,  what  hinders  your  sleeping  ?  " 

"  I  could  tell,  I  suppose,  if  you  want  to  hear,"  said  Cassy, 
dryly. 

"  Speak  out,  you  minx  !  "  said  Legree. 

"  Oh  !  nothing.  I  suppose  it  would  n't  disturb  you  !  Only 
groans,  and  people  scuffling,  and  rolling  round  on  the  garret 
floor,  half  the  night,  from  twelve  to  morning !  " 

"  People  up  garret !  "  said  Legree,  uneasily,  but  forcing  a 
laugh ;  "  who  are  they,  Gassy  ?  " 

Cassy  raised  her  sharp,  black  eyes,  and  looked  in  the  face  of 
Legree,  with  an  expression  that  went  through  his  bones,  as  she 
said,  "  To  be  sure,  Simon,  who  are  they  ?  I  'd  like  to  have  you 
tell  me.  You  don't  know,  I  suppose  !  " 

"With  an  oath,  Legree  struck  at  her  with  his  riding-whip  ;  but 
she  glided  to  one  side,  and  passed  through  the  door,  and  looking 
back,  said,  "  If  you  '11  sleep  in  that  room,  you  '11  know  all  about 
it.  Perhaps  you  'd  better  try  it !  "  and  then  immediately  she 
shut  and  locked  the  door. 

Legree  blustered  and  swore,  and  threatened  to  J^eak  down 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  447 

the  door ;  but  apparently  thought  better  of  it,  and  walked  un 
easily  into  the  sitting-room.  Cassy  perceived  that  her  shaft  had 
struck  home ;  and,  from  that  hour,  with  the  most  exquisite  ad 
dress,  she  never  ceased  to  continue  the  train  of  influences  she 
had  begun. 

In  a  knot-hole  in  the  garret  she  had  inserted  the  neck  of  an 
old  bottle,  in  such  a  manner  that  when  there  was  the  least  wind, 
most  doleful  and  lugubrious  wailing  sounds  proceeded  from  it, 
which,  in  a  high  wind,  increased  to  a  perfect  shriek,  such  as  to 
credulous  and  superstitious  ears  might  easily  seem  to  be  that 
of  horror  and  despair. 

These  sounds  were,  from  time  to  time,  heard  by  the  servants, 
and  revived  in  full  force  the  memory  of  the  old  ghost  legend. 
A  superstitious  creeping  horror  seemed  to  fill  the  house  ;  and 
though  no  one  dared  to  breathe  it  to  Legree,  he  found  himself 
encompassed  by  it,  as  by  an  atmosphere. 

No  one  is  so  thoroughly  superstitious  as  the  godless  man.  The 
Christian  is  composed  by  the  belief  of  a  wise,  all-ruling  Father, 
whose  presence  fills  the  void  unknown  with  light  and  order ;  but 
to  the  man  who  has  dethroned  God,  the  spirit  land  is,  indeed, 
in  the  words  of  the  Hebrew  poet,  "  a  land  of  darkness  and  the 
shadow  of  death,''  without  any  order,  where  the  light  is  as  dark 
ness.  Life  and  death  to  him  are  haunted  grounds,  filled  with 
goblin  forms  of  vague  and  shadowy  dread. 

Legree  had  had  the  slumbering  moral  element  in  him  roused 
by  his  encounters  with  Tom,  —  roused,  only  to  be  resisted  by 
the  determinate  force  of  evil ;  but  still  there  was  a  thrill  and 
commotion  of  the  dark,  inner  world,  produced  by  every  word,  or 
prayer,  or  hymn,  that  reacted  in  superstitious  dread. 

The  influence  of  Cassy  over  him  was  of  a  strange  and  singular 
kind.  He  was  her  owner,  her  tyrant  and  tormentor.  She  was, 
as  he  knew,  wholly,  and  without  any  possibility  of  help  or  re 
dress,  in  his  hands ;  and  yet  so  it  is,  that  the  most  brutal  man 
cannot  live  in  constant  association  with  a  strong  female  influ 
ence,  and  not  be  greatly  controlled  by  it.  When  he  first  bought 
her,  she  was,  as  she  had  said,  a  woman  delicately  bred ;  and 
then  he  crushed  her,  without  scruple,  beneatli  the  foot  of  his 
brutality.  But,  as  time,  and  debasing  influences,  and  despair 
hardened  womanhood  within  her,  a,nd  waked  the  fires  of  fiercer 


448  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

passions,  she  had  become  in  a  measure  his  mistress,  and  he  al 
ternately  tyrannized  over  and  dreaded  her. 

This  influence  had  become  more  harassing  and  decided,  since 
partial  insanity  had  given  a  strange,  weird,  unsettled  cast  to  all 
her  words  and  language. 

A  night  or  two  after  this,  Legree  was  sitting  in  the  old  sit 
ting-room,  by  the  side  of  a  flickering  wood  fire,  that  threw  un 
certain  glances  round  the  room.  It  was  a  stormy,  windy  night, 
such  as  raises  whole  squadrons  of  nondescript  noises  in  rickety 
old  houses.  Windows  were  rattling,  shutters  flapping,  the  wind 
carousing,  rumbling,  and  tumbling  down  the  chimney,  and,  every 
once  in  a  while,  puffing  out  smoke  and  ashes,  as  if  a  legion  of 
spirits  were  coming  after  them.  Legree  had  been  casting  up 
accounts  and  reading  newspapers  for  some  hours,  while  Cassy  sat 
in  the  corner,  sullenly  looking  into  the  fire.  Legree  laid  down 
his  paper,  and  seeing  an  old  book  lying  on  the  table,  which  he 
had  noticed  Cassy  reading,  the  first  part  of  the  evening,  took  it 
up,  and  began  to  turn  it  over.  It  was  one  of  those  collections  of 
stories  of  bloody  murders,  ghostly  legends,  and  supernatural 
visitations,  which,  coarsely  got  up  and  illustrated,  have  a  strange 
fascination  for  one"  who  once  begins  to  read  them. 

Legree  poohed  and  pished,  but  read,  turning  page  after  page, 
till,  finally,  after  reading  some  way,  he  threw  down  the  book, 
v/ith  an  oath. 

"  You  don't  believe  in  ghosts,  do  you,  Cass  ?  "  said  he,  taking 
the  tongs  and  settling  the  fire.  "  I  thought  you  'd  more  sense 
than  to  let  noises  scare  you" 

"  No  matter  what  I  believe,"  said  Cassy,  sullenly. 

"  Fellows  used  to  try  to  frighten  me  with  their  yarns  at  sea," 
said  Legree.  "  Never  come  it  round  me  that  way.  I  'm  toe 
tough  for  any  such  trash,  tell  ye." 

Cassy  sat  looking  intensely  at  him  in  the  shadow  of  the  corner* 
There  was  that  strange  light  in  her  eyes  that  always  impressed 
Legree  with  uneasiness. 

"  Them  noises  was  nothing  but  rats  and  the  wind,"  said  Le 
gree.  "  Rats  will  make  a  devil  of  a  noise.  I  used  to  hear  'em 
sometimes  down -in  the  hold  of  the  ship;  and  wind,  —  Lord's 
sake !  ye  can  make  anything  out  o'  wind." 

Cassy  knew  Legree  was  uneasy  under  her  eyes,  and,  therefore, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  449 

she  made  no  answer,  but  sat  fixing  them  on  him,  with  that 
strange,  unearthly  expression,  as  before. 

"  Come,  speak  out,  woman,  —  don't  you  think  so  ?  "  said 
Legree. 

"  Can  rats  walk  down  stairs,  and  come  walking  through  the 
entry,  and  open  a  door  when  you  've  locked  it  and  set  a  chair 
against  it  ?  "  said  Cassy  ;  "  and  come  walk,  walk,  walking  right 
up  to  your  bed,  and  put  out  their  hand,  so  ?  " 

Cassy  kept  her  glittering  eyes  fixed  on  Legree,  as  she  spoke, 
and  he  stared  at  her  like  a  man  in  the  nightmare,  till,  when  she 
finished  by  laying  her  hand,  icy  cold,  on  his,  he  sprung  back, 
with  an  oath. 

"  Woman  !  what  do  you  mean  ?     Nobody  did  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  —  of,  course  not.  —  did  I  say  they  did  ?  "  said  Cassy, 
with  a  smile  of  chilling  derision. 

"  But  —  did  —  have  you  really  seen  ?  —  Come,  Cass,  what  is 
it,  now,  —  speak  out !  " 

k*  You  may  sleep  there,  yourself,"  said  Cassy,  "if  you  want  to 
know." 

"  Did  it  come  from  the  garret,  Cassy  ?  "      9 

11  It,  —what  ?  "  said  Cassy. 

"  Why,  what  you  told  of  " 

"  I  did  n't  tell  you  anything,"  said  Cassy,  with  dogged  sullen- 
ness. 

Legree  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  uneasily. 

"  I  '11  have  this  yer  thing  examined.  I  '11  look  into  it,  this 
very  night.  I  '11  take  my  pistols  "  — 

"  Do,"  said  Cassy  ;  "  sleep  in  that  room.  I  'd  like  to  see  you 
doing  it.  Fire  your  pistols,  —  do  !  " 

Legree  stamped  his  foot,  and  swore  violently. 

"  Don't  swear,"  said  Cassy ;  "  nobody  knows  who  may  be 
hearing  you.  Hark  !  What  was  that  ?  " 

"  What  ?  "  said  Legree,  starting. 

A  heavy  old  Dutch  clock,  that  stood  in  the  corner  of  th« 
room,  began,  and  slowly  struck  twelve. 

For  some  reason  or  other,  Legree  neither  spoke  nor  moved  ; 
a  vague  horror  fell  on  him  ;  while  Cassy,  with*  a  keen,  sneering 
glitter  in  her  eyes,  stood  looking  at  him,  counting  the  strokes. 

u  Twelve  o'clock ;    well,  now  we  '11  see,"  said  she,  turning, 


450  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

and  opening  the  door  into  the  passage-way,  and  standing  as  it 
listening. 

"  Hark !     What 's  that  ?  "  said  she,  raising  her  finger. 

"  It 's  only  the  wind,"  said  Legree.  "  Don't  you  hear  how 
cursedly  it  blows  ?  " 

u  Simon,  come  here,"  said  Gassy,  in  a  whisper,  laying  her 
hand  on  his,  and  leading  him  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  ;  "  do  you 
know  what  that  is  ?  Hark  !  " 

A  wild  shriek  came  pealing  down  the  stairway.  It  came 
from  the  garret.  Legree's  knees  knocked  together ;  his  face 
grew  "white  with  fear. 

"  Had  n't  you  better  get  your  pistols  ?  "  said  Gassy,  with  a 
sneer  that  froze  Legree's  blood.  "  It  's  time  this  thing  was 
looked  into,  you  know.  I  'd  like  to  have  you  go  up  now ; 
they  're  at  it." 

"  I  won't  go !  "  said  Legree,  with  an  oath. 

"Why  not?  There  an't  any  such  thing  as  ghosts,  you  know! 
Come  !  "  and  Gassy  flitted  up  the  winding  stairway,  laughing, 
and  looking  back  after  him,  "Come  on." 

"  I  believe  you  are  the  devil !  "  said  Legree.  "  Come  back, 
you  hag,  • —  come  back,  Cass  !  You  shan't  go  I  " 

But  Gassy  laughed  wildly,  and  fled  on.  He  heard  her  open 
the  entry  doors  that  led  to  the  garret.  A  wild  gust  of  wind 
swept  down,  extinguishing  the  candle  he  held  in  his  hand,  and 
with  it  the  fearful,  unearthly  screams  ;  they  seemed  to  be 
shrieked  in  his  very  ear. 

Legree  fled  frantically  into  the  parlor,  whither,  in  a  few 
moments,  he  was  followed  by  Gassy,  pale,  calm,  cold  as  an 
avenging  spirit,  and  with  that  same  fearful  light  in  her  eye. 

"  I  hope  you  are  satisfied,"  said  she. 

"  Blast  you,  Cass  !  "  said  Legree. 

"  What  for  ?  "  said  Gassy.  "  I  only  went  up  and  shut  the 
doors.  What's' the  matter  with  that  garret,  Simon,  do  you 
suppose  ?  "  said  she. 

"  None  of  your  business  !  "  said  Legree. 

"  Oh,  it  an't  ?  Well,"  said  Gassy,  "  at  any  rate,  I  'm  glad  1 
don't  sleep  under  it." 

Anticipating  the  rising  of  the  wind,  that  very  evening,  Caesy 
had  been  up  and  opened  the  garret  window.  Of  course,  the 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  451 

moment  the  doors  were  opened,  the  wind  had  drafted  down,  and 
extinguished  the  light. 

This  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  game  that  Cassy  played 
with  Legree,  until  he  would  sooner  have  put  his  head  into  a 
lion's  mouth  than  to  have  explored  that  garret.  Meanwhile, 
in  the  night,  when  everybody  else  was  asleep,  Cassy  slowly  and 
carefully  accumulated  there  a  stock  of  provisions  sufficient  to 
afford  subsistence  for  some  time  ;  she  transferred,  article  by 
article,  a  greater  part  of  her  own  and  Emmeline's  wardrobe. 
All  things  being  arranged,  they  only  waited  a  fitting  opportunity 
to  put  their  plan  in  execution. 

By  cajoling  Legree,  and  taking  advantage  of  a  good-natured 
interval,  Cassy  had  got  him  to  take  her  with  him  to  the  neigh 
boring  town,  which  was  situated  directly  on  the  Red  River. 
With  a  memory  sharpened  to  almost  preternatural  clearness^ 
she  remarked  every  turn  in  the  road,  and  formed  a  mental 
estimate  of  the  time  to  be  occupied  in  traversing  it. 

At  the  time  when  all  was  matured  for  action,  our  readers 
may,  perhaps,  like  to  look  behind  the  scenes,  and  see  the  final 
coup  d'etat. 

It  was  now  near  evening.  Legree  had  been  absent,  on  a  ride 
to  a  neighboring  farm.  For  many  days  Cassy  had  been  unu 
sually  gracious  and  accommodating  in  her  humors  ;  and  Legree 
and  she  had  been,  apparently,  on  the  best  of  terms.  At  present, 
we  may  behold  her  and  Emmeline  in  the  room  of  the  latter, 
busy  in  sorting  and  arranging  two  small  bundles. 

"  There,  these  will  be  large  enough,"  said  Cassy.  "  Now  put 
on  your  bonnet,  and  let  's  start :  it  's  just  about  the  right  time." 

"  Why,  they  can  see  us  yet,"  said  Emmeline. 

"  I  mean  they  shall,"  said  Cassy,  coolly.  "  Don't  you  know 
that  they  must  have  their  chase  after  us,  at  any  rate.  The  way 
of  the  thing  is  to  be  just  this  :  —  We  will  steal  out  of  the  back 
door,  and  run  down  by  the  quarters.  Sambo  or  Quimbo  will  be 
sure  to  see  us.  They  will  give  chase,  and  we  will  get  into  the 
swamp ;  then,  they  can't  follow  us  any  further  till  they  go  up 
and  give  the  alarm,  and  turn  out  the  dogs,  and  so  on  ;  and, 
while  they  are  blundering  round,  and  tumbling  over  each  other, 
as  they  always  do.  you  and  I  will  just  slip  along  to  the  creek, 
that  runs  back  of  the  house,  and  wade  along  in  it,  till  we  get 


452  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

opposite  the  back  door.  That  will  put  the  dogs  all  at  fault ;  fop 
scent  won't  lie  in  the  water.  Every  one  will  run  out  of  the 
house  to  look  after  us.  and  then  we  '11  whip  in  at  the  back  door, 
and  up  into  the  garret,  where  I  've  got  a  nice  bed  made  up  in 
one  of  the  great  boxes.  We  must  stay  in  that  garret  a  good 
while ;  for,  I  tell  you,  he  will  raise  heaven  and  earth  after  us. 
He  11  muster  some  of  those  old  overseers  on  the  other  planta 
tions,  and  have  a  great  hunt ;  and  they  '11  go  over  every  inch  of 
ground  in  that  swamp.  He  makes  it  his  boast  that  nobody  ever 
got  away  from  him.  So  let  him  hunt  at  his  leisure." 

"  Gassy,  how  well  you  have  planned  it ! "  said  Emmeline. 
"  Who  ever  would  have  thought  of  it,  but  you  ?  " 

There  was  neither  pleasure  nor  exultation  in  Cassy's  eyes,  — 
only  a  despairing  firmness. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  reaching  her  hand  to  Emmeline. 

The  two  fugitives  glided  noiselessly  from  the  house,  and 
flitted,  through  the  gathering  shadows  of  evening,  along  by  the 
quarters.  The  crescent  moon,  set  like  a  silver  signet  in  the 
western  sky,  delayed  a  little  the  approach  of  night.  As  Gassy 
expected,  when  quite  near  the  verge  of  the  swamps  that  en 
circled  the  plantation,  they  heard  a  voice  calling  to  them  to 
stop.  It  was  noi  Sambo,  however,  but  Legrce,  who  was  pur 
suing  them  with  violent  execrations.  At  the  sound,  the  feebler 
spirit  of  Emmeline  gave  way ;  and,  laying  hold  of  Cassy's  orm, 
she  said,  "  Oh,  Gassy,  I  'm  going  to  faint !  " 

"  If  you  do,  I  '11  kill  you !  "  said  Gassy,  drawing  a  small, 
glittering  stiletto,  and  flashing  it  before  the  eyes  of  the  girl. 

The  diversion  accomplished  the  purpose.  Emmeline  did  not 
faint,  and  succeeded  in  plunging,  with  Gassy,  into  a  part  of  the 
labyrinth  of  swamp,  so  deep  and  dark  that  it  was  perfectly 
hopeless  for  Legree  to  think  of  following  them,  without  assist 
ance. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  chuckling  brutally ;  "  at  any  rate,  they  've 
got  themselves  into  a  trap  now  —  the  baggages  !  They  're  safe 
enough.  They  shall  sweat  for  it !  " 

"  Hulloa,  there !  Sambo  !  Quimbo !  All  hands !  "  called 
Legree,  coming  to  the  quarters,  when  the  men  and  women 
were  just  returning  from  work.  "There's  two  runaways  in 
the  swamps.  I  '11  give  five  dollars  to  any  nigger  as  catchea 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  453 

'em.  Tm*n  out  the  dogs !  Turn  out  Tiger,  and  Fury,  and  the 
rest ! " 

The  sensation  produced  by  this  news  was  immediate.  Many 
of  the  men  sprang  forward,  officiously,  to  offer  their  services, 
either  from  the  hope  of  the  reward,  or  from  that  cringing  sub 
serviency  which  is  one  of  the  most  baleful  effects  of  slavery. 
Some  ran  one  way,  and  some  another.  Some  were  for  getting 
flambeaux  of  pine-knots.  Some  were  uncoupling  the  dogs, 
whose  hoarse,  savage  bay  added  not  a  little  to  the  animation  of 
the  scene. 

"  Mas'r,  shall  we  shoot 'em,  if  we  can't  cotch'em?"  said 
Sambo,  to  whom  his  master  brought  out  a  rifle, 

"  You  may  fire  on  Cass,  if  you  like ;  it 's  time  she  was  gone 
to  the  devil,  where  she  belongs ;  but  the  gal,  not,"  said  Legree. 
"And  now,  boys,  be  spry  and  smart.  Five  dollars  for  him 
that  gets  'em ;  and  a  glass  of  spirits  to  every  one  of  you,  any 
how." 

The  whole  band,  with  the  glare  of  blazing  torches,  and 
whoop,  and  shout,  and  savage  yell,  of  man  and  beast,  pro 
ceeded  down  to  the  swamp,  followed,  at  some  distance,  by 
every  servant  in  the  house.  The  establishment  was,  of  a  con 
sequence,  wholly  deserted,  when  Gassy  and  Emmeline  glided 
into  it  Ihe  back  way.  The  whooping  and  shouts  of  their  pur 
suers  were  still  filling  the  air;  and,  looking  from  the  sitting- 
room  windows,  Gassy  and  Emmeline  could  see  the  troop,  with 
their  flambeaux,  just  dispersing  themselves  along  the  edge  of 
the  swamp. 

"  See  there  !  "  said  Emmeline,  pointing  to  Gassy ;  "  the  hunt 
is  begun !  Look  how  those  lights  dance  about !  Hark !  the 
dogs !  Don't  you  hear  ?  If  we  were  only  there,  our  chance 
wouldn't  be  worth  a  picayune.  Oh,  for  pity's  sake,  do  let's 
hide  ourselves.  Quick !  " 

"There's  no  occasion  for  hurry,"  said  Gassy,  coolly;  "they 
are  all  out  after  the  hunt,  —  that 's  the  amusement  of  the  even 
ing  !  We  '11  go  up  stairs,  by  and  by.  Meanwhile,"  said  she, 
deliberately  taking  a  key  from  the  pocket  of  a  coat  that  Legree 
had  thrown  down  in  his  hurry,  "  meanwhile  I  shall  take  some 
thing  to  pay  our  passage." 

She  unlocked  the  desk,  took  from  it  a  roll  of  bills,  which  she 
counted  over  rapidly. 


454  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

"  Oh,  don't  let 's  do  that !  "  said  Emmeline. 

"  Don't !  "  said  Gassy ;  "  why  not  ?  Would  you  have  ua 
starve  in  the  swainps,  or  have  that  that  will  pay  our  way  to 
the  free  states  ?  Money  will  do  anything,  girl."  And,  as  she 
spoke,  she  put  the  money  in  her  bosom. 

"  It  would  be  stealing,"  said  Emmeline,  in  a  distressed  whis 
per. 

"  Stealing !  "  said  Gassy,  with  a  scornful  laugh.  "  They  who 
steal  body  and  soul  need  n't  talk  to  us.  Every  one  of  these 
bills  is  stolen,  —  stolen  from  poor,  starving,  sweating  creatures, 
who  must  go  to  the  devil  at  last,  for  his  profit.  Let  him  talk 
about  stealing !  But  come,  we  may  as  well  go  up  garret ;  I  've 
got  a  stock  of  candles  there,  and  some  books  to  pass  away  the 
time.  You  may  be  pretty  sure  they  won't  come  there  to  inquire 
after  us.  If  they  do,  I  '11  play  ghost  for  them." 

When  Emmeline  reached  the  garret,  she-  found  an  immense 
box,  in  which  some  heavy  pieces  of  furniture  had  once  been 
brought,  turned  on  its  side,  so  that  the  opening  faced  the  wall, 
or  rather  the  eaves.  Gassy  lit  a  small  lamp,  and,  creeping 
round  under  the  eaves,  they  established  themselves  in  it.  It 
was  spread  with  a  couple  of  small  mattresses  and  some  pillows ; 
a  box  near  by  was  plentifully  stored  with  candles,  provisions, 
and  all  the  clothing  necessary  to  their  journey,  which  Gassy  had 
arranged  into  bundles  of  an  astonishingly  small  compass. 

"There,"  said  Gassy,  as  she  fixed  the  lamp  into  a  small  hook, 
which  she  had  driven  into  the  side  of  the  box  for  that  purpose ; 
"  this  is  to  be  our  home  for  the  present.  How  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Are  you  sure  they  won't  come  and  search  the  garret  ?  " 

"  I  'd  like  to  see  Simon  Legree  doing  that,"  said  Gassy. 
"No,  indeed;  he  will  be  too  glad  to  keep  away.  As  to  the 
servants,  they  would  any  of  them  stand  and  be  shot,  sooner 
than  show  their  faces  here." 

Somewhat  reassured,  Emmeline  settled  herself  back  on  her 
pillow. 

"  What  did  you  mean,  Gassy,  by  saying  you  would  kill  me  ?  " 
she  said,  simply. 

"  I  meant  to  stop  your  fainting,"  said  Gassy,  "  and  I  did  do 
it.  And  now  I  tell  you,  Emmeline,  you  must  make  up  your 
mind  not  to  faint,  let  what  will  come ;  there  's  no  sort  of  need 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  465 

of  it.  If  I  had  not  stopped  you,  that  wretch  might  have  had 
his  hands  on  you  now." 

Emmeline  shuddered. 

The  two  remained  some  time  in  silence.  Gassy  busied  her- 
eelf  with  a  French  book;  Emmeline,  overcome  with  the  ex 
haustion,  fell  into  a  doze,  and  slept  some  time.  She  was 
awakened  by  loud  shouts  and  outcries,  the  tramp  of  horses' 
feet,  and  the  baying  of  dogs.  She  started  up,  with  a  faint 
shriek. 

"Only  the  hunt  coming  back,"  said  Gassy,  coolly;  "never 
fear.  Look  out  of  this  knot-hole.  Don't  you  see  'em  all  down 
there?  Simon  has  to  give  it  up,  for  this  night.  Look,  how 
muddy  his  horse  is,  flouncing  about  in  the  swamp;  the  dogs, 
too,  look  rather  crestfallen.  Ah,  my  good  sir,  you  '11  have  to 
try  the  race  again  and  again  —  the  game  is  n't  there." 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  a  word !  "  said  Emmeiine  ;  "  what  if  they 
should  hear  you  ?  " 

"  If  they  do  hear  anything,  it  will  make  them  very  particular 
to  keep  away,"  said  Gassy.  "  No  danger ;  we  may  make  any 
noise  we  please,  and  it  will  only  add  to  the  effect." 

At  length  the  stillness  of  midnight  settled  down  over  the 
house.  Legree,  cursing  his  ill  luck,  and  vowing  dire  vengeance 
on  the  morrow,  went  to  bed. 


456  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 


CHAPTER   XL. 

THE   MARTYR. 

"  Deem  not  the  just  by  Heaven  forgot ! 

Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny,  — 
Though,  with  a  crushed  and  bleeding  heart, 

And  spurned  of  man,  he  goes  to  die ! 
For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day, 

And  numbered  every  bitter  tear ; 
And  heaven's  long  years  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here." 

Bryant. 

THE  longest  way  must  have  its  close,  —  the  gloomiest  night 
will  wear  on  to  a  morning.  An  eternal,  inexorable  lapse  of  mo 
ments  is  ever  hurrying  the  day  of  the  evil  to  an  eternal  night, 
and  the  night  of  the  just  to  an  eternal  day.  We  have  walked 
with  our  humble  friend  thus  far  in  the  valley  of  slavery ;  first 
through  flowery  fields  of  ease  and  indulgence,  then  through 
heart-breaking  separations  from  all  that  man  holds  dear.  Again, 
we  have  waited  with  him  in  a  sunny  island,  where  generous 
hands  concealed  his  chains  with  flowers  ;  and,  lastly,  we  have 
followed  him  when  the  last  ray  of  earthly  hope  went  out  in 
night,  and  seen  how,  in  the  blackness  of  earthly  darkness,  the 
firmament  of  the  unseen  has  blazed  with  stars  of  new  and  sig- 
laficant  lustre. 

The  morning  star  now  stands  over  the  tops  of  the  mountains, 
and  gales  and  breezes,  not  of  earth,  show  that  the  gates  of  day 
are  unclosing. 

The  escape  of  Gassy  and  Emmeline  irritated  the  before  surly 
temper  of  Legree  to  the  last  degree  ;  and  his  fury,  as  was  to 
be  expected,  fell  upon  the  defenceless  head  of  Tom.  When  he 
hurriedly  announced  the  tidings  among  his  hands,  there  was  a 
sudden  light  in  Tom's  eye,  a  sudden  upraising  of  his  hands, 
that  did  not  escape  him.  He  saw  that  he  did  not  join  the  mus 
ter  of  the  pursuers.  He  thought  of  forcing  him  to  do  it ;  but, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  457 

having  had,  of  old,  experience  of  his  inflexibility  when  com 
manded  to  take  part  in  any  deed  of  inhumanity,  he  would  not, 
in  his  hurry,  stop  to  enter  into  any  conflict  with  him. 

Tom,  therefore,  remained  behind,  with  a  few  who  had  learned 
of  him  to  pray,  and  offered  up  prayers  for  the  escape  of  the  fu 
gitives. 

When  Legree  returned,  baffled  and  disappointed,  all  the  long- 
working  hatred  of  his  soul  towards  his  slave  began  to  gather  in 
a  deadly  and  desperate  form.  Had  not  this  man  braved  him, 
—  steadily,  powerfully,  resistlessly,  —  ever  since  he  bought  him  ? 
Was  there  not  a  spirit  in  him  which,  silent  as  it  was,  burned  on 
him  like  the  fires  of  perdition  ? 

"  I  hate  him !  "  said  Legree,  that  night,  as  he  sat  up  in  his 
bed ;  "  I  hate  him !  And  is  n't  he  MINE  ?  Can't  I  do  what  I 
like  with  him  ?  Who  's  to  hinder,  I  wonder  ?  "  And  Legree 
clenched  his  fist,  and  shook  it,  as  if  he  had  something  in  hia 
hands  that  he  could  rend  in  pieces. 

But,  then,  Tom  was  a  faithful,  valuable  servant ;  and,  al 
though  Legree  hated  him  the  more  for  that,  yet  the  considera 
tion  was  still  somewhat  of  a  restraint  to  him. 

The  next  morning,  he  determined  to  say  nothing,  as  yet ;  to 
assemble  a  party,  from  some  neighboring  plantations,  with  do.^s 
and  guns  ;  to  surround  the  swamp,  and  go  about  the  hunt  sys 
tematically.  If  it  succeeded,  well  and  good ;  if  not,  he  would 
summon  Tom  before  him,  and  —  his  teeth  clenched  and  his 
blood  boiled  —  then  he  would  break  that  fellow  down,  or  — 
there  was  a  dire  inward  whisper,  to  which  his  soul  assented. 

Ye  say  that  the  interest  of  the  master  is  a  sufficient  safe 
guard  for  the  slave.  In  the  fury  of  man's  mad  will,  he  will 
wittingly,  and  with  open  eye,  sell  his  own  soul  to  the  devil  to 
gain  his  ends ;  and  will  he  be  more  careful  of  his  neighbor's 
body  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Gassy,  the  next  dav,  from  the  garret,  as  she 
reconnoitred  through  the  knot-hole,  "  tne  mint 's  going  to  begin 
again,  to-day  !  " 

Three  or  four  mounted  horsemen  were  curvetting  about,  on 
the  space  front  of  the  house  ;  and  one  or  two  leashes  of  st?ange 
dogs  were  struggling  with  the  negroes  who  held  them,  baying 
and  barking  at  each  other. 


458  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

The  men  are,  two  of  them,  overseers  of  plantations  in  the 
vicinity ;  and  others  were  some  of  Legree's  associates  at  the 
tavern-bar  of  a  neighboring  city,  who  had  come  for  the  interest 
of  the  sport.  A  more  hard-favored  set,  perhaps,  could  not  be 
imagined.  Legree  was  serving  brandy,  profusely,  round  among 
them,  as  also  among  the  negroes,  who  had  been  detailed  from 
the  various  plantations  for  this  service  ;  for  it  was  an  object  to 
make  every  service  of  this  kind,  among  the  negroes,  as  much  of 
a  holiday  as  possible. 

Gassy  placed  her  ear  at  the  knot-hole ;  and,  as  the  morning 
air  blew  directly  towrards  the  house,  she  could  overhear  a  good 
deal  of  the  conversation.  A  grave  sneer  overcast  the  dark,  se 
vere  gravity  of  her  face,  as  she  listened,  and  heard  them  divide 
out  the  ground,  discuss  the  rival  merits  of  the  dogs,  give  orders 
about  firing,  and  the  treatment  of  each,  in  case  of  capture. 

Gassy  drew  back ;  and,  clasping  her  hands,  looked  upward, 
and  said,  "  O  great  Almighty  God  !  we  are  all  sinners  ;  but 
what  have  we  done,  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  that  we 
should  be  treated  so  ?  " 

There  was  a  terrible  earnestness  in  her  face  and  voice,  as  she 
spoke. 

"  If  it  was  n't  for  you,  child,"  she  said,  looking  at  Emmeline, 
"  I  'd  go  out  to  them  ;  and  I  'd  thank  any  one  of  them  that 
would  shoot  me  down ;  for  what  use  will  freedom  be  to  me  ? 
Can  it  give  me  back  my  children,  or  make  me  what  I  used  to 
be?" 

Emmeline,  in  her  childlike  simplicity,  was  half  afraid  of  the 
dark  moods  of  Gassy.  She  looked  perplexed,  but  made  no  an 
swer.  She  only  took  her  hand,  with  a  gentle,  caressing  move 
ment. 

"Don't!"  said  Gassy,  trying  to  draw  it  away;  "you'll  get 
me  to  loving  you ;  and  I  never  mean  to  love  anything,  again  !  " 

"  Poor  Gassy  !  "  said  Emmeline,  "  don't  feel  so  !  If  the  Lord 
gives  us  liberty,  perhaps  he  '11  give  you  back  your  daughter ;  at 
any  rate,  I  '11  be  like  a  daughter  to  you.  I  know  I  '11  never  see 
my  poor  old  mother  again !  I  shall  love  you,  Gassy,  whether 
you  love  me  or  not !  " 

The  gentle,  childlike  spirit  conquered.  Gassy  sat  down  by 
her,  put  her  arm  round  her  neck,  stroked  her  soft,  brown  hair; 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  459 

and  Emmeline  then  wondered  at  the  beauty  of  her  magnificent 
eyes,  now  soft  with  teal's. 

"  Oh,  Em !  "  said  Gassy,  "  I  've  hungered  for  my  children, 
and  thirsted  for  them,  and  my  eyes  fail  with  longing  for  them ! 
Here  !  here  !  "  she  said,  striking  her  breast,  "  it 's  all  desolate, 
all  empty  !  If  God  would  give  me  back  my  children,  then  I 
could  pray." 

"  You  must  trust  him,  Gassy,"  said  Emmeline  ;  "  he  is  our  Fa 
ther  ! " 

"His  wrath  is  upon  us,"  said  Gassy ;  "  he  has  turned  away  in 
anger." 

"  No,  Gassy  !  He  will  be  good  to  us  !  Let  us  hope  in  him," 
said  Emmeline,  —  "I  always  have  had  hope." 

The  hunt  was  long,  animated,  and  thorough,  but  unsuccess 
ful  ;  and  with  grave,  ironic  exultation,  Gassy  looked  down  on 
Legree,  as,  weary  and  dispirited,  he  alighted  from  his  horse. 

"  Now,  Quimbo,"  said  Legree,  as  he  stretched  himself  down 
in  the  sitting-room,  "you  jest  go  and  walk  that  Tom  up  here, 
right  away !  The  old  cuss  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  yer  whole 
matter  ;  and  I  '11  have  it  out  of  his  old  black  hide,  or  I  '11  know 
the  reason  why." 

Sambo  and  Quimbo,  both,  though  hating  each  other,  were 
joined  in  one  mind  by  a  no  less  cordial  hatred  of  Tom.  Legree 
had  told  them,  at  first,  that  he  had  bought  him  for  a  general 
overseer,  in  his  absence  ;  and  this  had  begun  an  ill  will,  on 
their  part,  which  had  increased,  in  their  debased  and  servile 
natures,  as  they  saw  him  becoming  obnoxious  to  their  master's 
displeasure.  Quimbo,  therefore,  departed,  with  a  will,  to  exe 
cute  his  orders. 

Tom  heard  the  message  with  a  forewarning  heart ;  for  he 
knew  all  the  plan  of  the  fugitives'  escape,  and  the  place  of  their 
present  concealment ;  he  knew  the  deadly  character  of  the  man 
he  had  to  deal  with,  and  his  despotic  power.  But  he  felt  strong 
in  God  to  meet  death,  rather  than  betray  the  helpless. 

He  set  his  basket  down  by  the  row,  and,  looking  up,  said, 
"  Into  thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit !  Thou  hast  redeemed 
me,  0  Lord  God  of  truth  I  "  and  then  quietly  yielded  himself 
to  the  rough,  brutal  grasp  with  which  Quimbo  seized  him. 


460  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

"Ay,  ay  !  "  said  the  giant,  as  he  dragged  him  along;  "  ye '11 
cotch  it,  now !  I  '11  boun'  Mas'r's  back 's  up  high  !  No  sneak 
ing  out,  now  !  Tell  ye,  ye  11  get  it,  and  no  mistake !  See  how 
ye  '11  look,  now,  helpin'  Mas'r's  niggers  to  run  away !  See  what 
ye '11  get!" 

The  savage  words  none  of  them  reached  that  ear  !  —  a  higher 
voice  there  was  saying,  "  Fear  not  them  that  kill  the  body,  and, 
after  that,  have  no  more  that  they  can  do,"  Nerve  and  bone  of 
that  poor  man's  body  vibrated  to  those  words,  as  if  touched  by 
the  finger  of  God  ;  and  he  felt  the  strength  of  a  thousand  souls 
in  one.  As  he  passed  along,  the  trees  and  bushes,  the  huts  of 
his  servitude,  the  whole  scene  of  his  degradation,  seemed  to 
whirl  by  him  as  the  landscape  by  the  rushing  car.  His  soul 
throbbed,  —  his  home  was  in  sight,  —  and  the  hour  of  release 
seemed  at  hand. 

"  Well,  Tom !  "  said  Legree,  walking  up,  and  seizing  him 
grimly  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  and  speaking  through  his  teeth, 
in  a  paroxysm  of  determined  rage,  "  do  you  know  I  've  made 
up  my  mind  to  KILL  you  ?  " 

"It 's  very  likely,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  calmly. 

"  I  have,"  said  Legree,  with  grim,  terrible  calmness,  "  done 
— just — that  —  thing,  Tom,  unless  you'll  tell  me  what  you 
know  about  these  yer  gals !  " 

Tom  stood  silent. 

"  D'  ye  hear  ?  "  said  Legree,  stamping,  with  a  roar  like  that 
of  an  incensed  lion.  "Speak  !  " 

"  /  han't  got  nothing  to  tell,  Mas'r  "  said  Tom,  with  a  slow, 
firm,  deliberate  utterance. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  tell  me,  ye  old  black  Christian,  ye  don't 
know  ?  "  sai<l  Legree. 

Tom  was  silent. 

"  Speak  !  "  thundered  Legree,  striking  him  furiously.  "  Do 
you  know  anything  ?  " 

"  I  know,  Mas'r  ;  but  I  can't  tell  anything.     /  can  die  !  " 

Legree  drew  in  a  long  breath ;  and,  suppressing  his  rags, 
took  Tom  by  the  arm,  and,  approaching  his  face  almost  to  his, 
said  in  a  terrible  voice,  "  Hark  'e,  Tom  !  —  ye  think,  'cause  I  've 
let  you  off  before,  I  don't  mean  what  I  say ;  but,  this  time, 
I  Ve  made  up  my  mind,  and  counted  the  cost.  You  've  always 


LIFE   AMONG    THE  LOWLY.  461 

stood  it  out  agin  me  :  now,  I  '11  conquer  ye  or  Idll  ye  !  —  one  or 
t'  other.  I  '11  count  every  drop  of  blood  there  is  in  you,  and 
take  'em,  one  by  one,  till  ye  give  up !  " 

Tom  looked  up  to  his  master,  and  answered,  "  Mas'r,  if  you 
was  sick,  or  in  trouble,  or  dying,  and  I  could  save  ye,  I  'd  give 
ye  my  heart's  blood ;  and,  if  taking  every  drop  of  blood  in  this 
poor  old  body  would  save  your  precious  soul,  I  'd  give  'em 
freely,  as  the  Lord  gave  his  for  me.  Oh,  Mas'r !  don't  bring 
this  great  sin  on  your  soul !  It  will  hurt  you  more  than  't  will 
me !  Do  the  worst  you  can,  my  troubles  '11  be  over  soon  ;  but, 
if  ye  don't  repent,  yours  won't  never  end  !  " 

Like  a  strange  snatch  of  heavenly  music,  heard  in  the  lull  of 
a  tempest,  this  burst  of  feeling  made  a  moment's  blank  pause. 
Legree  stood  aghast,  and  looked  at  Tom ;  and  there  was  such  a 
silence  that  the  tick  of  the  old  clock  could  be  heard,  measuring, 
with  silent  touch,  the  last  moments  of  mercy  and  probation  to 
that  hardened  heart. 

It  was  but  a  moment.  There  was  one  hesitating  pause,  — 
one  irresolute,  relenting  thrill,  —  and  the  spirit  of  evil  came 
back,  with  sevenfold  vehemence  ;  and  Legree,  foaming  with  rage, 
smote  his  victim  to  the  ground. 

Scenes  of  blood  and  cruelty  are  shocking  to  our  ear  and 
heart.  What  man  has  nerve  to  do.  man  has  not  nerve  to  heat. 
What  brother-man  and  brother- Christian  must  suffer,  cannot  be 
told  us,  even  in  our  secret  chamber,  it  so  harrows  tip  the  soul ! 
And  yet,  oh,  my  country !  these  things  are  done  under  the 
shadow  of  thy  laws!  O  Christ!  thy  church  sees  them,  almost 
in  silence ! 

But,  of  old,  there  was  One  whose  suffering  changed  an  in 
strument  of  torture,  degradation,  and  shame,  into  a  symbol  of 
glory,  honor,  and  immortal  life ;  and,  where  his  spirit  is,  neither 
degrading  stripes,  nor  blood,  nor  insults,  can  make  the  Chris 
tian's  last  struggle  less  than  glorious. 

Was  he  alone,  that  long  night,  whose  brave,  loving  spirit 
\vas  bearing  up,  in  that  old  ghed,  against  buffeting  and  brutal 
stripes  ? 

Nay !  There  stood  by  him  ONE,  —  seen  by  him  alone,  — 
'•  like  unto  the  Son  of  God." 


462  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

The  tempter  stood  by  him,  too, — blinded  by  furious,  des 
potic  will,  —  every  moment  pressing  him  to  shun  that  agony  by 
the  betrayal  of  the  innocent.  But  the  brave,  true  heart  was 
firm  on  the  Eternal  Rock.  Like  his  Master,  he  knew  that,  if  he 
saved  others,  himself  he  could  not  save  ;  nor  could  utmost  ex 
tremity  wring  from  him  words,  save  of  prayer  and  holy  trust. 

"  He  's  most  gone,  Mas'r,"  said  Sambo,  touched,  in  spite  of 
himself,  by  the  patience  of  his  victim. 

"  Pay  away,  till  he  gives  up !  Give  it  to  him !  —  give  it  to 
him  !  "  shouted  Legree.  "  I  '11  take  every  drop  of  blood  he 
has,  unless  he  confesses !  " 

Tom  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  upon  his  master.  "  Ye 
poor  miserable  crittur !  "  he  said,  "  there  an't  no  more  ye  can 
do  !  I  forgive  ye,  with  all  my  soul !  "  and  he  fainted  entirely 
away. 

"  I  b'lieve,  my  soul,  he  's  done  for,  finally,"  said  Legree, 
stepping  forward,  to  look  at  him.  "  Yes,  he  is  !  Well,  his 
mouth  's  shut  up,  at  last,  —  that  's  one  comfort !  " 

Yes,  Legree ;  but  who  shall  shut  up  that  voice  in  thy  soul  ? 
that  soul,  past  repentance,  past  prayer,  past  hope,  in  whom  the 
fire  that  never  shall  be  quenched  is  already  burning ! 

Yet  Tom  was  not  quite  gone.  His  wondrous  words  and 
pious  prayers  had  struck  upon  the  hearts  of  the  imbruted  blacks, 
who  had  been  the  instruments  of  cruelty  upon  him  ;  and,  the 
instant  Legree  withdrew,  they  took  him  down,  and,  in  their 
ignorance,  sought  to  call  him  back  to  life,  —  as  if  that  were  any 
favor  to  him. 

"  Sartin,  we  's  been  doin'  a  drefful  wicked  thing !  "  said 
Sambo;  "hopes  Mas'r  '11  have  to  'count  for  it,  and  not  we." 

They  washed  his  wounds,  —  they  provided  a  rude  bed,  of 
some  refuse  cotton,  for  him  to  lie  down  on  ;  and  one  of  them, 
stealing  up  to  the  house,  begged  a  drink  of  brandy  of  Legree, 
pretending  that  he  was  tired,  and  wanted  it  for  himself.  He 
brought  it  back  and  poured  it  down  Tom's  throat. 

"  Oh,  Tom !  "  said  Quimbo,  "  we  's  been  awful  wicked  to  ye !  " 

"I  forgive  ye,  with  all  my  heart!  "  said  Tom,  faintly. 

"  Oh,  Tom  !  do  tell  us  who  is  Jesus,  anyhow  ?  "  said  Sambo, 
—  "  Jesus,  that 's  been  a  standin'  by  you  so,  all  this  night  ?  — 
Who  is  he  ?  " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  463 

The  word  roused  the  failing,  fainting  spirit.  He  poured  forth 
a  few  energetic  sentences  of  that  wondrous  One,  —  his  life,  his 
death,  his  everlasting  presence,  and  power  to  save. 

They  wept,  —  both  the  two  savage  men. 

"  Why  did  n't  I  never  hear  this  before  ?  "  said  Sambo  ;  "  but 
I  do  believe  !  —  I  can't  help  it !  Lord  Jesus,  have  mercy  on 
us!" 

"  Poor  critturs !  "  said  Tom,  "  I  'd  be  willin  to  bar  all  I  have, 
if  it  '11  only  bring  ye  to  Christ !  O  Lord !  give  me  these  two 
more  souls,  I  pray  !  " 

That  prayer  was  answered. 


464  UNCLE   TOMS   CABIN;   OB. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

THE   YOUNG   MASTER. 

Two  days  after,  a  young  man  drove  a  light  wagon  up  through 
the  avenue  of  China-trees,  and,  throwing  the  reins  hastily  on 
the  horses'  neck,  sprang  out  and  inquired  for  the  owner  of  the 
place. 

It  was  George  Shelby  ;  and,  to  show  how  he  came  to  be  there, 
we  must  go  back  in  our  story. 

The  letter  of  Miss  Ophelia  to  Mrs.  Shelby  had,  by  some  un 
fortunate  accident,  been  detained,  for  a  month  or  two,  at  some 
remote  post  -  office,  before  it  reached  its  destination ;  and,  of 
course,  before  it  was  received,  Tom  was  already  lost  to  view 
among  the  distant  swamps  of  the  Red  River. 

Mrs.  Shelby  read  the  intelligence  with  the  deepest  concern  ; 
but  any  immediate  action  upon  it  was  an  impossibility.  She  was 
then  in  attendance  on  the  sick-bed  of  her  husband,  who  lay  de 
lirious  in  the  crisis  of  a  fever.  Master  George  Shelby,  who,  in 
the  interval,  had  changed  from  a  boy  to  a  tall  young  man,  was 
her  constant  and  faithful  assistant,  and  her  only  reliance  in  su 
perintending  his  father's  affairs.  Miss  Ophelia  had  taken  the 
precaution  to  send  them  the  name  of  the  lawyer  who  did  busi 
ness  for  the  St.  Clares ;  and  the  most  that,  in  the  emergency, 
could  be  clone,  was  to  address  a  letter  of  inquiry  to  him.  The 
sudden  death  of  Mr.  Shelby,  a  few  days  after,  brought,  of 
course,  an  absorbing  pressure  of  other  interests  for  a  season. 

Mr.  Shelby  showed  his  confidence  in  his  wife's  ability,  by  ap 
pointing  her  sole  executrix  upon  his  estates  ;  and  thus  imme 
diately  a  large  and  complicated  amount  of  business  was  brought 
upon  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Shelby,  with  characteristic  energy,  applied  herself  to  the 
work  of  Straightening  the  entangled  web  of  affairs ;  and  she  and 
George  were  for  some  time  occupied  with  collecting  and  exam- 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  465 

ining  accounts,  selling  property,  and  settling  debts ;  for  Mrs. 
Shelby  was  determined  that  everything  should  be  brought  into 
tangible  and  recognizable  shape,  let  the  consequences  to  her 
prove  what  they  might.  In  the  mean  time,  they  received  a  let 
ter  from  the  lawyer  to  whom  Miss  Ophelia  had  referred  them, 
saying  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter :  that  the  man  was 
sold  at  a  public  auction,  and  that,  beyond  receiving  the  money, 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  affair. 

Neither  George  nor  Mrs.  Shelby  could  be  easy  at  this  result ; 
and  accordingly  some  six  months  after,  the  latter,  having  busi 
ness  for  his  mother,  down  the  river,  resolved  to  visit  New  Or 
leans,  in  person,  and  push  his  inquiries,  in  hopes  of  discovering 
Tom's  whereabouts,  and  restoring  him. 

After  some  months  of  unsuccessful  search,  by  the  merest  ac 
cident,  George  fell  in  with  a  man,  in  New  Orleans,  who  hap 
pened  to  be  possessed  of  the  desired  information;  and  with  his 
money  in  his  pocket,  our  hero  took  steamboat  for  Red  River, 
resolving  to  find  out  and  repurchase  his  old  friend. 

He  was  soon  introduced  into  the  house,  where  he  found  Le- 
gree  in  the  sitting-room. 

Legree  received  the  stranger  with  a  kind  of  surly  hospitality. 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  young  man,  "  that  you  bought,  in 
New  Orleans,  a  boy,  mimed  Tom.  He  used  to  be  on  my  fa 
ther's  place,  and  I  came  to  see  if  I  could  n't  buy  him  back." 

Legree's  brow  grew  dark,  and  he  broke  out,  passionately : 
"  Yes,  I  did  buy  such  a  fellow,  —  and  a  h — 1  of  a  bargain  I 
had  of  it,  too  !  The  most  rebellious,  saucy,  impudent  dog !  Set 
up  my  niggers  to  run  away  ;  got  off  two  gals,  worth  eight  hun 
dred  or  a  thousand  dollars  apiece.  He  owned  to  that,  and,  when 
I  bid  him  tell  me  where  they  was,  he  up  and  said  he  knew,  but 
he  would  n't  tell ;  and  stood  to  it,  though  I  gave  him  the  cus- 
sedest  flogging  I  ever  gave  nigger  yet.  I  b'lieve  lie  's  trying  to 
die  ;  but  I  don't  know  as  he  '11  make  it  out." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  said  George,  impetuously.  "  Let  me  see 
him."  The  cheeks  of  the  young  man  were  crimson,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  fire  ;  but  he  prudently  said  nothing,  as  yet. 

"  He  's  in  dat  ar  shed,"  said  a  little  fellow,  who  stood  holding 
George's  horse. 

30 


466  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

Legree  kicked  the  boy,  and  swore  at  him ;  but  George,  with- 
out  saying  another  word,  turned  and  strode  to  the  spot. 

Tom  had  been  lying  two  days  since  the  fatal  night ;  not  suf 
fering,  for  every  nerve  of  suffering  was  blunted  and  destroyed. 
He  lay,  for  the  most  part,  in  a  quiet  stupor  ;  for  the  laws  of  a 
powerful  and  well-knit  frame  would  not  at  once  release  the  im 
prisoned  spirit.  By  stealth,  there  had  been  there,  in  the  dark 
ness  of  the  night,  poor  desolated  creatures,  who  stole  from  their 
scanty  hours'  rest,  that  they  might  repay  to  him  some  of  those 
ministrations  of  love  in  which  he  had  always  been  so  abundant. 
Truly,  those  poor  disciples  had  little  to  give,  —  only  the  cup  of 
cold  water  ;  but  it  was  given  with  full  hearts. 

Tears  had  fallen  on  that  honest,  insensible  face,  —  tears  of 
late  repentance  in  the  poor,  ignorant  heathen,  whom  his  dying 
love  and  patience  had  awakened  to  repentance,  and  bitter 
prayers,  breathed  over  him  to  a  late-found  Saviour,  of  whom 
they  scarce  knew  more  than  the  name,  but  whom  the  yearning 
ignorant  heart  of  man  never  implores  in  vain. 

Gassy,  who  had  glided  out  of  her  place  of  concealment,  and, 
by  overhearing,  learned  the  sacrifice  that  had  been  made  for 
her  and  Emmeline,  had  been  there,  the  night  before,  defying 
the  danger  of  detection  ;  and,  moved  by  the  few  last  words 
which  the  affectionate  soul  had  yet  strength  to  breathe,  the  long 
winter  of  despair,  the  ice  of  years,  had  given  way,  and  the  dark, 
despairing  woman  had  wept  and  prayed. 

When  George  entered  the  shed,  he  felt  his  head  giddy  and 
his  heart  sick. 

"  Is  it  possible,  —  is  it  possible  ?  "  said  he,  kneeling  down  by 
him.  "  Uncle  Tom,  my  poor,  poor  old  friend  !  " 

Something  in  the  voice  penetrated  to  the  ear  of  the  dying. 
He  moved  his  head  gently,  smiled,  and  said,  — 

"  Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 
Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are." 

Tears  which  did  honor  to  his  manly  heart  fell  from  the  young 
man's  eyes,  as  he  bent  over  his  poor  friend. 

"Oh,  dear  Uncle  Tom!  do  wake, — do  speak  once  more! 
Look  up !  Here  's  Mas'r  George,  —  your  own  little  Mas'r 
George.  Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  467 

"  Mas'r  George  !  "  said  Tom,  opening  his  eyes,  and  speaking 
in  a  feeble  voice.  "  Mas'r  George !  "  He  looked  bewildered. 

Slowly  the  idea  seemed  to  fill  his  soul ;  and  the  vacant  eye 
became  fixed  and  brightened,  the  whole  face  lighted  up,  the 
hard  hands  clasped,  and  tears  ran  down  the  cheeks. 

"  Bless  the  Lord  !  it  is,  —  it  is,  —  it 's  all  I  wanted !  They 
have  n't  forgot  me.  It  warms  my  soul ;  it  does  my  old  heart 
good !  Now  I  shall  die  content !  Bless  the  Lord,  oh,  my 
BOU!  ! " 

"  You  shan't  die  !  you  must  n't  die,  nor  think  of  it.  I  've 
come  to  buy  you,  and  take  you  home,"  said  George,  with  im 
petuous  vehemence. 

"  Oh,  Mas'r  George,  ye  're  too  late.  The  Lord  's  bought  me, 
and  is  going  to  take  me  home,  —  and  I  long  to  go.  Heaven  is 
better  than  Kintuok." 

"  Oh,  don't  die  !  It  '11  kill  me  !  —  it  '11  break  my  heart  to 
think  what  you  've  suffered,  —  and  lying  in  this  old  shed,  here ! 
Poor,  poor  fellow  !  " 

"  Don't  call  me  poor  fellow !  "  said  Tom,  solemnly.  "  I  have 
been  poor  fellow ;  but  that 's  all  past  and  gone,  now.  I  'm 
right  in  the  door,  going  into  glory  !  Oh,  Mas'r  George  !  Heaven 
has  come  I  I  've  got  the  victory !  —  the  Lord  Jesus  has  given  it 
to  me !  Glory  be  to  his  name  !  " 

George  was  awe-struck  at  the  force,  the  vehemence,  the  power, 
with  which  these  broken  sentences  were  uttered.  He  sat  gaz 
ing,  in  silence. 

Tom  grasped  his  hand,  and  continued,  —  "  Ye  must  n't,  now, 
tell  Chloe,  poor  soul !  how  ye  found  me ;  —  't  would  be  so 
drefful  to  her.  Only  tell  her  ye  found  me  going  into  glory ; 
and  that  I  couldn't  stay  for  no  one.  And  tell  her  the  Lord  's 
stood  by  me  everywhere  and  al'ays,  and  made  everything  light 
and  easy.  And  oh,  the  poor  chil'en,  and  the  baby !  —  my  old 
heart 's  been  most  broke  for  'em,  time  and  agin !  Tell  'em  all 
to  follow  me  —  follow  me !  Give  my  love  to  Mas'r,  and  dear 
good  Missis,  and  everybody  in  the  place !  Ye  don't  know ! 
'Pears  like  I  loves  'em  all !  I  loves  every  creatur'  everywhar ! 
—  it 's  nothing  but  love  !  Oh,  Mas'r  George,  what  a  thing 't  is 
to  be  a  Christian  !  " 

At  this  moment,  Letrree  splintered  up  to  the  door  of  the  shed, 


468  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

looked  in,  with  a  dogged  air  of  affected  carelessness,  and  turned 
away. 

"  The  old  Satan  !  "  said  George,  in  his  indignation.  "  It  's  a 
comfort  to  think  the  devil  will  pay  him  for  this,  some  of  these 
days !  " 

"Oh,  don't!  —  Oh,  ye  mustn't!"  said  Tom,  grasping  his 
hand  ;  "  he  's  a  poor  mis'able  crittur  !  it 's  awful  to  think  on  't ! 
Oh,  if  he  only  could  repent,  the  Lord  would  forgive  him  now ; 
but  I  'm  'feard  he  never  will !  " 

"  I  hope  he  won't !  "  said  George ;  "  I  never  want  to  see  him 
in  heaven !  " 

"  Hush,  Mas'r  George  !  —  it  worries  me  !  Don't  feel  so  !  He 
an't  done  me  no  real  harm,  —  only  opened  the  gate  of  the  king 
dom  for  me  ;  that 's  all !  " 

At  this  moment,  the  sudden  flush  of  strength  which  the  joy  of 
meeting  his  young  master  had  infused  into  the  dying  man  gave 
way.  A  sudden  sinking  fell  upon  him  ;  he  closed  his  eyes ;  and 
that  mysterious  and  sublime  change  passed  over  his  face,  that 
told  the  approach  of  other  worlds. 

He  began  to  draw  his  breath  with  long,  deep  inspirations,  and 
his  broad  chest  rose  and  fell,  heavily.  The  expression  of  his  face 
was  that  of  a  conqueror. 

"  Who  —  who  —  who  shall  separate  us  from  the  love  of 
Christ  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  contended  with  mortal  weak 
ness  ;  and,  with  a  smile,  he  fell  asleep. 

George  sat  fixed  with  solemn  awe.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  place  was  holy ;  and,  as  lie  closed  tlie  lifeless  eyes,  and  rose 
up  from  the  dead,  only  one  thought  possessed  him,  —  that  ex 
pressed  by  his  simple  old  friend,  —  "  What  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a 
Christian !  " 

He  turned ;  Legree  was  standing,  sullenly,  behind  him. 

Something  in  that  dying  scene  had  checked  the  natural  fierce 
ness  of  youthful  passion.  The  presence  of  the  man  was  simply 
loathsome  to  George ;  and  he  felt  only  an  impulse  to  get  away 
from  him,  with  as  few  words  as  possible. 

Fixing  his  keen  dark  eyes  on  Legree,  he  simply  said,  pointing 
to  the  dead,  "  You  have  got  all  you  ever  can  of  him.  What 
shall  I  pay  you  for  the  body  ?  I  will  take  it  away,  and  bury  it 
Recently." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  469 

"  I  don't  sell  dead  niggers,"  said  Legree,  doggedly.  "  You 
are  welcome  to  bury  him  where  and  when  you  like." 

"  Boys,"  said  George,  in  an  authoritative  tone,  to  two  or  three 
negroes,  who  were  looking  at  the  body,  "  help  me  lift  him  up, 
and  carry  him  to  my  wagon  ;  and  get  me  a  spade." 

One  of  them  ran  for  a  spade ;  the  other  two  assisted  George 
to  carry  the  body  to  the  wagon. 

George  neither  spoke  to  nor  looked  at  Legree,  who  did  not 
countermand  his  orders,  but  stood,  whistling,  with  an  air  of 
forced  unconcern.  He  sulkily  followed  them  to  where  the  wagon 
stood  at  the  door. 

George  spread  his  cloak  in  the  wagon,  and  had  the  body  care 
fully  disposed  of  in  it,  —  moving  the  seat,  so  as  to  give  it  room. 
Then  he  turned,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Legree,  and  said,  with  forced 
composure,  — 

"  I  have  not,  as  yet,  said  to  you  what  I  think  of  this  most 
atrocious  affair  ;  —  this  is  not  the  time  and  place.  But,  sir,  this 
innocent  blood  shall  have  justice.  I  will  proclaim  this  murder. 
I  will  go  to  the  very  first  magistrate  and  expose  you." 

"Do  I"  said  Legree,  snapping  his  fingers,  scornfully.  "I'd 
like  to  see  you  doing  it.  Where  you  going  to  get  witnesses  ?  — 
how  you  going  to  prove  it  ?  —  Come,  now !  " 

George  saw,  at  once,  the  force  of  this  defiance.  There  was 
not  a  white  person  on  the  place ;  and,  in  all  southern  courts,  the 
testimony  of  colored  blood  is  nothing.  He  felt,  at  that  moment, 
as  if  he  could  have  rent  the  heavens  with  his  heart's  indignant 
cry  for  justice  ;  but  in  vain. 

"After  all,  what  a  fuss,  for  a  dead  nigger !  "  said  Legree. 

The  word  was  as  a  spark  to  a  powder-magazine.  Prudence 
was  never  a  cardinal  virtue  of  the  Kentucky  boy.  George  turned, 
and,  with  one  indignant  blow,  knocked  Legree  flat  upon  his  face  ; 
and,  as  he  stood  over  him,  blazing  with  wrath  and  defiance,  he 
would  have  formed  no  bad  personification  of  his  great  namesake 
triumphing  over  the  dragon. 

Some  men,  however,  are  decidedly  bettered  by  being  knocked 
down.  If  a  man  lays  them  fairly  flat  in  the  dust,  they  seem 
immediately  to  conceive  a  respect  for  him  ;  and  Legree  was  one 
of  this  sort.  As  he  rose,  therefore,  and  brushed  the  dust  from 
his  clothes,  he  eyed  the  slowly  retreating  wagon  with  some  evi- 


470  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OK, 

dent  consideration ;  nor  did  he  open  liis  mouth  till  it  was  out  of 
sight. 

Beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  plantation,  George  had  noticed 
a  dry,  sandy  knoll,  shaded  by  a  few  trees ;  there  they  made  the 
grave. 

"  Shall  we  take  off  the  cloak,  Mas'r  ?  "  said  the  negroes,  when 
the  grave  was  ready. 

"  No,  no,  —  bury  it  with  him !  It  's  all  I  can  give  you,  now, 
poor  Tom,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

They  laid  him  in ;  and  the  men  shovelled  away,  silently. 
They  banked  it  up,  and  laid  green  turf  over  it. 

"  You  may  go,  boys,"  said  George,  slipping  a  quarter  into  the 
hand  of  each.  They  lingered  about,  however. 

"  If  young  Mas'r  would  please  buy  us  "  —  said  one. 

"  We  'd  serve  him  so  faithful !  "  said  the  other. 

"  Hard  times  here,  Mas'r !  "  said  the  first.  "  Do,  Mas'r,  buy 
us,  please ! " 

"  I  can't,  —  I  can't !  "  said  George,  with  difficulty,  motioning 
them  off;  "it's  impossible  !  " 

The  poor  fellows  looked  dejected,  and  walked  off  in  silence. 

"  Witness,  eternal  God  !  "  said  George,  kneeling  on  the  grave 
of  his  poor  friend  ;  "  Oh,  witness  that,  from  this  hour,  I  will  do 
what  one  man  can  to  drive  out  this  curse  of  slavery  from  my 
land !  " 

There  is  no  monument  to  mark  the  last  resting-place  of  our 
friend.  He  needs  none !  His  Lord  knows  where  he  lies,  and 
will  raise  him  up,  immortal,  to  appear  with  him  when  he  shall 
appear  in  his  glory. 

Pity  him  not !  Such  a  life  and  death  is  not  for  pity !  Not  in 
the  riches  of  omnipotence  is  the  chief  glory  of  God ;  but  in  self- 
denying,  suffering  love  !  And  blessed  are  the  men  whom  he 
calls  to  fellowship  with  him,  bearing  their  cross  after  him  with 
patience.  Of  such  it  is  written,  "  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn, 
for  they  shall  be  comforted." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  471 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

AN   AUTHENTIC    GHOST    STORY. 

FOR  some  remarkable  reason,  ghostly  legends  were  uncom 
monly  rife,  about  this  time,  among  the  servants  on  Legree's 
place. 

It  was  whisperingly  asserted  that  footsteps,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  had  been  heard  descending  the  garret  stairs,  and  patrol 
ling  the  house.  In  vain  the  doors  of  the  upper  entry  had  been 
locked ;  the  ghost  either  carried  a  duplicate  key  in  its  pocket, 
or  availed  itself  of  a  ghost's  immemorial  privilege  of  coming 
through  the  keyhole,  and  promenaded  as  before,  with  a  freedom 
that  was  alarming. 

Authorities  were  somewhat  divided,  as  to  the  outward  form 
of  the  spirit,  owing  to  a  custom  quite  prevalent  among  negroes, 
—  and,  for  aught  we  know,  among  whites,  too,  —  of  invariably 
shutting  the  eyes,  and  covering  up  heads  under  blankets,  petti 
coats,  or  whatever  else  might  come  in  use  for  a  shelter,  on  these 
occasions.  Of  course,  as  everybody  knows,  when  the  bodily 
eyes  are  thus  out  of  the  lists,  the  spiritual  eyes  are  uncommonly 
vivacious  and  perspicuous;  and,  therefore,  there  were  abun 
dance  of  full-length  portraits  of  the  ghost,  abundantly  sworn 
and  testified  to,  which,  as  is  often  the  case  with  portraits,  agreed 
with  each  other  in  no  particular,  except  the  common  family 
peculiarity  of  the  ghost  tribe, — the  wearing  of  a  white  sheet. 
The  poor  souls  were  not  versed  in  ancient  history,  and  did  not 
know  that  Shakespeare  had  authenticated  this  costume,  by  tell 
ing  how 

"The  sheeted  dead 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  streets  of  Rome." 

And,  therefore,  their  all  hitting  upon  this  is  a  striking  fact  in 
pneumatology,  which  we  recommend  to  the  attention  of  spiritual 
media  generally. 


472  UNCLE  TCM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

Be  it  as  it  may,  we  have  private  reasons  for  knowing  that 
a  tall  figure  in  a  white  sheet  did  walk,  at  the  most  approved 
ghostly  hours,  around  the  Legree  premises,  —  pass  out  the  doors, 
glide  about  the  house,  —  disappear  at  intervals,  and,  reappear 
ing,  pass  up  the  silent  stairway,  into  that  fatal  garret ;  and  that, 
in  the  morning,  the  entry  doors  were  all  found  shut  and  locked 
as  firm  as  ever. 

Legree  could  not  help  overhearing  this  whispering ;  and  it  was 
all  the  more  exciting  to  him,  from  the  pains  that  were  taken 
to  conceal  it  from  him.  He  drank  more  brandy  than  usual ; 
held  up  his  head  briskly,  and  swore  louder  than  ever  in  the 
daytime  ;  but  he  had  bad  dreams,  and  the  visions  of  his  head 
on  his  bed  were  anything  but  agreeable.  The  night  after  Tom's 
body  had  been  carried  away,  he  rode  to  the  next  town  for  a 
carouse,  and  had  a  high  one.  Got  home  late  and  tired  ;  locked 
his  door,  took  out  the  key,  and  went  to  bed. 

After  all,  let  a  man  take  what  pains  he  may  to  hush  it  down, 
a  human  soul  is  an  awful  ghostly,  unquiet  possession  for  a  bad 
man  to  have.  Who  knows  the  metes  and  bounds  of  it  ?  Who 
knows  all  its  awful  perhapses,  —  those  shudderings  and  trem 
blings,  which  it  can  no  more  live  down  than  it  can  outlive  its 
own  eternity !  What  a  fool  is  he  who  locks  his  door  to  keep 
out  spirits,  who  has  in  his  own  bosom  a  spirit  he  dares  not  meet 
alone,  —  whose  voice,  smothered  far  down,  and  piled  over  with 
mountains  of  earthliness,  is  yet  like  the  forewarning  trumpet  of 
doom  ! 

But  Legree  locked  his  door  and  set  a  chair  against  it ;  he  set 
a  night-lamp  at  the  head  of  his  bed  ;  and  he  put  his  pistols 
there.  He  examined  the  catches  and  fastenings  of  the  windows, 
and  then  swore  he  "  did  n't  care  for  the  devil  and  all  his  angels," 
and  went  to  sleep. 

Well,  he  slept,  for  he  was  tired,  —  slept  soundly.  But  finally, 
there  came  over  his  sleep  a  shadow,  a  horror,  an  apprehension 
of  something  dreadful  hanging  over  him.  It  was  his  mother's 
shroud,  he  thought ;  but  Gassy  had  it,  holding  it  up,  and  show 
ing  it  to  him.  He  heard  a  confused  noise  of  screams  and 
groanings ;  and,  with  it  all,  he  knew  he  was  asleep,  and  he 
struggled  to  wake  himself.  He  was  half  awake.  He  was  sure 
something  was  coming  into  his  room.  He  knew  the  door  was 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  473 

opening,  but  he  could  not  stir  hand  or  foot.  At  last  he  turned, 
with  a  start ;  the  door  was  open,  and  he  saw  a  hand  putting 
out  his  light. 

It  was  a  cloudy,  misty  moonlight,  and  there  he  saw  it !  — 
something  white,  gliding  in  !  He  heard  the  still  rustle  of  its 
ghostly  garments.  It  stood  still  by  his  bed  ;  —  a  cold  hand 
touched  his  ;  a  voice  said,  three  times,  in  a  low,  fearful  whisper, 
"  Come !  come  !  come  !  "  And,  while  he  lay  sweating  with 
terror,  he  knew  not  when  or  how,  the  thing  was  gone.  He 
sprang  out  of  bed,  and  pulled  at  the  door.  It  was  shut  and 
locked,  and  the  man  fell  down  in  a  swoon. 

After  this,  Legree  became  a  harder  drinker  than  ever  before. 
He  no  longer  drank  cautiously,  prudently,  but  imprudently  and 
recklessly. 

There  were  reports  around  the  country,  soon  after,  that  he 
was  sick  and  dying.  Excess  had  brought  on  that  frightful 
disease  that  seems  to  throw  the  lurid  shadows  of  a  coming  retri 
bution  back  into  the  present  life.  None  could  bear  the  horrors 
of  that  sick-room,  when  he  raved  and  screamed,  and  spoke  of 
sights  which  almost  stopped  the  blood  of  those  who  heard  him  ; 
and,  at  his  dying  bed,  stood  a  stern,  white,  inexorable  figure, 
saying,  "  Come  !  come  !  come  !  " 

By  a  singular  coincidence,  on  the  very  night  that  this  vision 
appeared  to  Legree,  the  house -door  was  found  open  in  the 
morning,  and  some  of  the  negroes  had  seen  two  white  figures 
gliding  down  the  avenue  towards  the  high-road. 

It  was  near  sunrise  when  Cassy  and  Emmeline  paused,  for  a 
moment,  in  a  little  knot  of  trees  near  the  town. 

Cassy  was  dressed  after  the  manner  of  the  Creole  Spanish 
ladies,  —  wholly  in  black.  A  small  black  bonnet  on  her  head, 
covered  by  a  veil  thick  with  embroidery,  concealed  her  face. 
It  had  been  agreed  that,  in  their  escape,  she  was  to  personate 
the  character  of  a  Creole  lady,  and  Emmeline  that  of  her 
servant. 

Brought  up,  from  early  life,  in  connection  with  the  highest 
society,  the  language,  movements,  and  air  of  Cassy  were  all  in 
agreement  with  this  idea ;  and  she  had  still  enough  remaining 
with  her,  of  a  once  splendid  wardrobe,  and  sets  of  jewels,  to 
enable  her  to  personate  the  thing  to  advantage. 


474  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

She  stopped  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  where  she  had 
noticed  trunks  for  sale,  and  purchased  a  handsome  one.  This 
she  requested  the  man  to  send  along  with  her.  And,  accord 
ingly,  thus  escorted  by  a  boy  wheeling  her  trunk,  and  Emme- 
iine  behind  her,  carrying  her  carpet-bag  and  sundry  bundles, 
she  made  her  appearance  at  the  small  tavern,  like  a  lady  of 
consideration. 

The  first  person  that  struck  her,  after  her  arrival,  was  George 
Shelby,  who  was  staying  there,  awaiting  the  next  boat. 

Gassy  had  remarked  the  young  man  from  her  loophole  in 
the  garret,  and  seen  him  bear  away  the  body  of  Tom,  and  ob 
served,  with  secret  exultation,  his  rencontre  with  Legree.  Sub 
sequently,  she  had  gathered,  from  the  conversations  she  had 
overheard  among  the  negroes,  as  she  glided  about  in  her  ghostly 
disguise,  after  nightfall,  who  he  was,  and  in  what  relation  he 
stood  to  Tom.  She,  therefore,  felt  an  immediate  accession  of 
confidence,  when  she  found  that  he  was,  like  herself,  awaiting 
the  next  boat, 

Cassy's  air  and  manner,  address,  and  evident  command  of 
money,  prevented  any  rising  disposition  to  suspicion  in  the 
hotel.  People  never  inquire  too  closely  into  those  who  are  fair 
on  the  main  point,  of  paying  well,  —  a  thing  which  Gassy  had 
foreseen  when  she  provided  herself  with  money. 

In  the  edge  of  the  evening,  a  boat  was  heard  coming  along, 
and  George  Shelby  handed  Gassy  aboard,  with  the  politeness 
which  comes  natural  to  every  Kentuckian,  and  exerted  himself 
to  provide  her  with  a  good  state-room. 

Gassy  kept  her  room  and  bed,  on  pretext  of  illness,  during 
the  whole  time  they  were  on  Red  River  ;  and  was  waited  on, 
with  obsequious  devotion,  by  her  attendant. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Mississippi  River,  George,  having 
learned  that  the  course  of  the  strange  lady  was  upward,  like  his 
own,  proposed  to  take  a  state-room  for  her  on  the  same  boat 
with  himself,  —  good  -  naturedly  compassionating  her  feeble 
health,  and  desirous  to  do  what  he  could  to  assist  her. 

Behold,  therefore,  the  whole  party  safely  transferred  to  the 
good  steamer  Cincinnati,  and  sweeping  up  the  river  under  a 
powerful  head  of  steam. 

Cassy's  health  was  much  better.     She  sat  upon  the  guards. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  '475 

eame  to  the  table,  and  was  remarked  upon  in  the  boat  as  a  lady 
that  must  have  been  very  handsome. 

From  the  moment  that  George  got  the  first  glimpse  of  her 
face,  he  was  troubled  with  one  of  those  fleeting  and  indefinite 
likenesses,  which  almost  everybody  can  remember,  and  has 
been,  at  times,  perplexed  with.  He  could  not  keep  himself 
from  looking  at  her,  and  watching  her  perpetually.  At  table, 
or  sitting  at  her  state-room  door,  still  she  would  encounter  the 
young  man's  eyes  fixed  on  her,  and  politely  withdrawn,  when 
she  showed,  by  her  countenance,  that  she  was  sensible  of  the 
observation. 

Gassy  became  uneasy.  She  began  to  think  that  he  suspected 
something  ;  and  finally  resolved  to  throw  herself  entirely  on  his 
generosity,  and  intrusted  him  with  her  whole  history. 

George  was  heartily  disposed  to  sympathize  with  any  one  who 
had  escaped  from  Legree's  plantation,  —  a  place  that  he  could 
not  remember  or  speak  of  with  patience,  —  and,  with  the  coura 
geous  disregard  of  consequences  which  is  characteristic  of  his 
age  and  state,  he  assured  her  that  he  would  do  all  in  his  power 
to  protect  and  bring  them  through. 

The  next  state-room  to  Cassy's  was  occupied  by  a  French 
lady,  named  De  Thoux,  who  was  accompanied  by  a  fine  little 
daughter,  a  child  of  some  twelve  summers. 

This  lady,  having  gathered,  from  George's  conversation,  that 
he  was  from  Kentucky,  seemed  evidently  disposed  to  cultivate 
his  acquaintance ;  in  which  design  she  was  seconded  by  the 
graces  of  her  little  girl,  who  was  about  as  pretty  a  plaything  as 
ever  diverted  the  weariness  of  a  fortnight's  trip  on  a  steamboat. 

George's  chair  was  often  placed  at  her  state-room  door ;  and 
Gassy,  as  she  sat  upon  the  guards,  could  hear  their  conversation. 

Madame  de  Thoux  was  very  minute  in  her  inquiries  as  to 
Kentucky,  where  she  said  she  had  resided  in  a  former  period  of 
her  life.  George  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that  her  former 
residence  must  have  been  in  his  own  vicinity  ;  and  her  inquiries 
showed  a  knowledge  of  people  and  things  in  his  region  that  was 
perfectly  surprising  to  him. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Madame  de  Thoux  to  him,  one  day, 
"  of  any  man,  in  your  neighborhood,  of  the  name  of  Harris  ?  " 

"  There  is  an  old  fellow,  of  that  name,  lives  not  far  from  my 


476  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

father's  place,"  said  George.  "  We  never  have  had  much  inter 
course  with  him,  though." 

"  He  is  a  large  slave-owner,  I  believe,"  said  Madame  de 
Thoux,  with  a  manner  which  seemed  to  betray  more  interest 
than  she  was  exactly  willing  to  show. 

"  He  is,"  said  George,  looking  rather  surprised  at  her  man 
ner. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  of  his  having  —  perhaps,  you  may  have 
heard  of  his  having  a  mulatto  boy,  named  George  ?  " 

"Oh,  certainly,  —  George  Harris,  —  I  know  him  well;  he 
married  a  servant  of  my  mother's,  but  has  escaped,  now,  to 
Canada." 

"  He  has  ?  "  said  Madame  de  Thoux,  quickly.  "  Thank 
God !  " 

George  looked  a  surprised  inquiry,  but  said  nothing. 

Madame  de  Thoux  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  He  is  my  brother,"  she  said. 

"  Madame  !  "  said  George,  with  a  strong  accent  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  said  Madame  de  -Thoux,  lifting  her  head,  proudly, 
and  wiping  her  tears ;  "  Mr.  Shelby,  George  Harris  is  my 
brother !  " 

"  I  am  perfectly  astonished,"  said  George,  pushing  back  his 
chair  a  pace  or  two,  and  looking  at  Madame  de  Thoux. 

"  I  was  sold  to  the  south  when  he  was  a  boy,"  said  she.  "  I 
was  bought  by  a  good  and  generous  man.  He  took  me  with 
him  to  the  West  Indies,  set  me  free,  and  married  me.  It  is 
but  lately  that  he  died ;  and  I  was  coming  up  to  Kentucky,  to 
see  if  I  could  find  and  redeem  my  brother." 

"  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  a  sister  Emily,  that  was  sold 
south,"  said  George. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  I  am  the  one,"  said  Madame  de  Thoux  ;  — 
*  tell  me  what  sort  of  a  "  — 

"  A  very  fine  young  man,"  said  George,  "  notwithstanding 
the  curse  of  slavery  that  lay  on  him.  He  sustained  a  first-rate 
character,  both  for  intelligence  and  principle.  I  know,  you  see/' 
he  said,  "  because  he  married  in  our  family." 

"  What  sort  of  a  girl  ?  "  said  Madame  de  Thoux,  eagerly. 

"A  treasure,"  said  George;  "a  beautiful,  intelligent,  amia- 


FE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  477 

ble  girl.     v  ions.     My  mother  had   brought  her  up,  and 

ri.  *  arefully,  almost,  as  a  daughter.     She  could  read 

write,  embroider  and  sew,  beautifully  ;  and  was  a  beautiful 

"  Was  she  born  in  your  house  ?  "  said  Madame  de  Thoux. 

"  No.  Father  bought  her  once,  in  one  of  his  trips  to  New 
Orleans,  and  brought  her  up  as  a  present  to  mother.  She  was 
about  eight  or  nine  years  old,  then.  Father  would  never  tell 
mother  what  he  gave  for  her ;  but,  the  other  day,  in  looking 
over  his  old  papers,  we  came  across  the  bill  of  sale.  He  paid 
an  extravagant  sum  for  her,  to  be  sure.  I  suppose,  on  account 
of  her  extraordinary  beauty." 

George  sat  with  his  back  to  Gassy,  and  did  not  see  the  ab 
sorbed  expression  of  her  countenance,  as  he  was  giving  these  de 
tails. 

At  this  point  in  the  story,  she  touched  his  arm,  and,  with  a 
face  perfectly  white  with  interest,  said,  "  Do  you  know  the 
names  of  the  people  he  bought  her  of  ?  " 

"  A  man  of  the  name  of  Simmons,  I  think,  was  the  principal 
in  the  transaction.  At  least,  I  think  that  was  the  name  on  the 
bill  of  sale." 

"  Oh,  my  God !  "  said  Gassy,  and  fell  insensible  on  the  floor 
of  the  cabin. 

George  was  wide  awake  now,  and  so  was  Madame  de  Thoux. 
Though  neither  of  them  could  conjecture  what  was  the  cause  of 
Cassy's  fainting,  still  they  made  all  the  tumult  which  is  proper 
in  such  cases  ;  —  George  upsetting  a  wash-pitcher,  and  breaking 
two  tumblers,  in  the  warmth  of  his  humanity  ;  and  various  la 
dies  in  the  cabin,  hearing  that  somebody  had  fainted,  crowded 
the  state-room  door,  and  kept  out  all  the  air  they  possibly  could, 
so  that,  on  the  whole,  everything  was  done  that  could  be  ex 
pected. 

Poor  Gassy  !  when  she  recovered,  turned  her  face  to  the  wall, 
and  wept  and  sobbed,  like  a  child,  —  perhaps,  mother,  you  can 
tell  what  she  was  thinking  of !  Perhaps  you  cannot,  —  but  she 
felt  as  sure,  in  that  hour,  that  God  had  had  mercy  on  her,  and 
that  she  should  see  her  daughter,  —  as  she  did,  months  after 
wards,  —  when  —  but  we  anticipate. 


478  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OB, 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

RESULTS. 

THE  rest  of  our  story  is  soon  told.  George  Shelby,  inter 
ested,  as  any  other  young  man  might  be,  by  the  romance  of  the 
incident,  no  less  than  by  feelings  of  humanity,  was  at  the  pains 
to  send  to  Gassy  the  bill  of  sale  of  Eliza,  whose  date  and  name 
all  corresponded  with  her  own  knowledge  of  facts,  and  left  no 
doubt  upon  her  mind  as  to  the  identity  of  her  child.  It  re 
mained  now  only  for  her  to  trace  out  the  path  of  the  fugitives. 

Madame  de  Thoux  and  she,  thus  drawn  together  by  the  sin 
gular  coincidence  of  their  fortunes,  proceeded  immediately  to 
Canada,  and  began  a  tour  of  inquiry  among  the  stations,  where 
the  numerous  fugitives  from  slavery  are  located.  At  Amherst- 
burg  they  found  the  missionary  with  whom  George  and  Eliza 
had  taken  shelter,  on  their  first  arrival  in  Canada  ;  and  through 
him  were  enabled  to  trace  the  family  to  Montreal. 

George  and  Eliza  had  now  been  five  years  free.  George  had 
found  constant  occupation  in  the  shop  of  a  worthy  machinist, 
where  he  had  been  earning  a  competent  support  for  his  family, 
which,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  increased  by  the  addition 
of  another  daughter. 

Little  Harry  —  a  fine  bright  boy  —  had  been  put  to  a  good 
school,  and  was  making  rapid  proficiency  in  knowledge. 

The  worthy  pastor  of  the  station,  in  Amherstburg,  where 
George  had  first  landed,  was  so  much  interested  in  the  state 
ments  of  Madame  de  Thoux  and  Cassy,  that  he  yielded  to  the 
solicitations  of  the  former,  to  accompany  them  to  Montreal,  in 
their  search,  —  she  bearing  all  the  expense  of  the  expedition. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  a  small,  neat  tenement,  in  the  out* 
skirts  of  Montreal ;  the  time,  evening.  A  cheerful  fire  blazes 
on  the  hearth  ;  a  tea-table,  covered  with  a  snowy  cloth,  stands 
prepared  for  the  evening  meal.  In  one  "corner  of  the  room  was 


LIFE  AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  479 

d  with  a  green  cloth,  where  was  an  open  writing- 
•per,  and  over  it  a  shelf  of  well-selected  books. 
*  Thjb  -  as  George's  study.     The  same  zeal  for  self -improve 
ment,  which  led  him  to  steal  the  much  coveted  arts  of  reading 
ing,  amid  all  the  toils  and  discouragements  of  his  early 
.  HtW  led  him  to  devote  all  his  leisure  time  to  self-cultivation. 
f.iL  this  present  time,  he  is  seated  at  the  table,  making  notes 
from  a  volume  of  the  family  library  he  has  been  reading. 

"  Come,  George,"  says  Eliza,  "  you  've  been  gone  all  day. 
Do  put  down  that  book,  and  let 's  talk,  while  I  'm  getting  tea, 
—  do." 

And  little  Eliza  seconds  the  effort,  by  toddling  up  to  her  fa 
ther,  and  trying  to  pull  the  book  out  of  his  hand,  and  install 
herself  on  his  knee  as  a  substitute. 

"  Oh,  you  little  witch !  "  says  George,  yielding,  as,  in  such 
circumstances,  man  always  must. 

"  That 's  right,"  says  Eliza,  as  she  begins  to  cut  a  loaf  of 
bread.  A  little  older  she  looks  ;  her  form  a  little  fuller  ;  her 
air  more  matronly  than  of  yore  ;  but  evidently  contented  and 
happy  as  woman  need  be. 

"Harry,  my  boy,  how  did  you  come  on  in  that  sum,  to 
day  ?  "  says  George,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  son's  head. 

Harry  has  lost  his  long  curls  ;  but  he  can  never  lose  those 
eyes  and  eyelashes,  and  that  fine,  bold  brow,  that  flushes  with 
triumph,  as  he  answers,  "  I  did  it,  every  bit  of  it,  myself,  fa 
ther  ;  and  nobody  helped  me  !  " 

"  That 's  right,"  says  his  father ;  "  depend  on  yourself,  my 
son.  You  have  a  better  chance  than  ever  your  poor  father 
nad." 

At  this  moment,  there  is  a  rap  at  the  door ;  and  Eliza  goes 
and  opens  it.  The  delighted  —  "  Why  !  —  this  you  ?  "  —  calls 
up  her  husband  ;  and  the  good  pastor  of  Amherstburg  is  wel 
comed.  There  are  two  women  with  him,  and  Eliza  asks  them 
to  sit  down. 

Now,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  honest  pastor  had  ar 
ranged  a  little  programme,  according  to  which  this  affair  was  to 
develop  itself  ;  and,  on  the  way  up,  all  had  very  cautiously  and 
prudently  exhorted  each  other  not  to  let  things  out,  except  ac 
cording  to  previous  arrangement. 


£80  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OR, 

What  was  the  good  man's  consternation,  therefore,  just  as  he 
had  motioned  to  the  ladies  to  be  seated,  and  was  taking  out  his 
pocket-handkerchief  to  wipe  his  mouth,  so  as  to  proceed  to  his 
introductory  speech  in  good  order,  when  Madame  de  Thoux 
upset  the  whole  plan,  by  throwing  her  arms  around  George's 
neck,  and  letting  all  out  at  once,  by  saying,  "  Oh,  George  !  don't 
you  know  me  ?  I  'jn  your  sister  Emily." 

Cassy  had  seated  herself  more  composedly,  and  would  have 
carried  on  her  part  very  well,  had  not  little  Eliza  suddenly  ap 
peared  before  her  in  exact  shape  and  form,  every  outline  and 
curl,  just  as  her  daughter  was  when  she  saw  her  last.  The  lit 
tle  thing  peered  up  in  her  face  ;  and  Cassy  caught  her  up  in 
her  arms,  pressed  her  to  her  bosom,  saying,  what  at  the  moment 
she  really  believed,  "  Darling,  I  'm  your  mother !  " 

In  fact,  it  was  a  troublesome  matter  to  do  up  exactly  in 
proper  order  ;  but  the  good  pastor,  at  last,  succeeded  in  getting 
everybody  quiet,  and  delivering  the  speech  with  which  he  had 
intended  to  open  the  exercises  ;  and  in  which,  at  last,  he  suc 
ceeded  so  well,  that  his  whole  audience  were  sobbing  about  him 
in  a  manner  that  ought  to  satisfy  any  orator,  ancient  or  modern. 

They  knelt  together,  and  the  good  man  prayed,  —  for  there 
are  some  feelings  so  agitated  and  tumultuous,  that  they  can  find 
rest  only  by  being  poured  into  the  bosom  of  Almighty  love,  — 
and  then,  rising  up,  the  new-found  family  embraced  each  other, 
with  a  holy  trust  in  Him  who  from  such  peril  and  dangers,  and 
by  such  unknown  ways,  had  brought  them  together. 

The  note-book  of  a  missionary,  among  the  Canadian  fugitives, 
contains  truth  stranger  than  fiction.  How  can  it  be  otherwise, 
when  a  system  prevails  which  whirls  families  and  scatters  their 
members,  as  the  wind  whirls  and  scatters  the  leaves  of  autumn  ? 
These  shores  of  refuge,  like  the  eternal  shore,  often  unite  again, 
in  glad  communion,  hearts  that  for  long  years  have  mourned 
each  other  as  lost.  And  affecting  beyond  expression  is  the 
earnestness  with  which  every  new  arrival  among  them  is  met, 
if,  perchance,  it  may  bring  tidings  of  mother,  sister,  child,  or 
Vrife,  still  lost  to  view  in  the  shadows  of  slavery. 

Deeds  of  heroism  are  wrought  here  more  than  those  of  ro 
mance,  when,  defying  torture,  and  braving  death  itself,  the  fugi 
tive  voluntarily  threads  his  way  back  to  the  terrors  and  perils  of 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  481 

that  dark  land,  that  he  may  bring  out  his  sister,  or  mother,  or 
wife. 

One  young  man,  of  whom  a  missionary  has  told  us,  twice  re 
captured,  and  suffering  shameful  stripes  for  his  heroism,  had 
escaped  again ;  and,  in  a  letter  which  we  heard  read,  tells  his 
friends  that  he  is  going  back  a  third  time,  that  he  may,  at  last, 
bring  away  his  sister.  My  good  sir,  is  this  man  a  hero,  or  a 
criminal  ?  Would  not  you  do  as  much  f  o.r  your  sister  ?  And 
can  you  blame  him  ? 

But,  to  return  to  our  friends,  whom  we  left  wiping  their  eyes, 
and  recovering  themselves  from  too  great  and  sudden  a  joy. 
They  are  now  seated  around  the  social  board,  and  are  getting 
decidedly  companionable ;  only  that  Cassy,  who  keeps  little 
Eliza  on  her  lap,  occasionally  squeezes  the  little  thing,  in  a  man 
ner  that  rather  astonishes  her,  and  obstinately  refuses  to  have 
her  mouth  stuffed  with  cake  to  the  extent  the  little  one  desires, 
—  alleging,  what  the  child  rather  wonders  at,  that  she  has  got 
something  better  than  cake,  and  does  n't  want  it. 

And,  indeed,  in  two  or  three  days,  such  a  change  has  passed 
over  Cassy,  that  our  readers  would  scarcely  know  her.  The 
despairing,  haggard  expression  of  her  face  had  given  way  to  one 
of  gentle  trust.  She  seemed  to  sink,  at  once,  into  the  bosom  of 
the  family,  and  take  the  little  ones  into  her  heart,  as  something 
for  which  it  long  had  waited.  Indeed,  her  love  seemed  to  flow 
more  naturally  to  the  little  Eliza  than  to  her  own  daughter  ;  for 
she  was  the  exact  image  and  body  of  the  child  whom  she  had 
lost.  The  little  one  was  a  flowery  bond  between  mother  and 
daughter,  through  whom  grew  up  acquaintanceship  and  affec 
tion.  Eliza's  steady,  consistent  piety,  regulated  by  the  constant 
reading  of  the  sacred  word,  made  her  a  proper  guide  for  the 
shattered  and  wearied  mind  of  her  mother.  Cassy  yielded  at 
once,  and  with  her  whole  soul,  to  every  good  influence,  and  be 
came  a  devout  and  tender  Christian. 

After  a  day  or  two,  Madame  de  Thoux  told  her  brother  more 
particularly  of  her  affairs.  The  death  of  her  husband  had  left 
her  an  ample  fortune,  which  she  generously  offered  to  share 
with  the  family.  When  she  asked  George  what  way  she  could 
best  apply  it  for  him,  he  answered,  "  Give  me  an  education, 
31 


482  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

Emily ;  that  has  always  been  my  heart's  desire.  Then,  I  can 
do  all  the  rest." 

On  mature  deliberation,  it  was  decided  that  the  whole  family 
should  go,  for  some  years,  to  France  ;  whither  they  sailed,  car 
rying  Emmeline  with  them. 

The  good  looks  of  the  latter  won  the  affection  of  the  first 
mate  of  the  vessel ;  and,  shortly  after  entering  the  port,  she  be 
came  his  wife. 

George  remained  four  years  at  a  French  university,  and,  ap 
plying  himself  with  an  unintermitted  zeal,  obtained  a  very  thor 
ough  education. 

Political  troubles  in  France,  at  last,  led  the  family  again  to 
seek  an  asylum  in  this  country. 

George's  feelings  and  views,  as  an  educated  man,  may  be  best 
expressed  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  friends. 

"  I  feel  somewhat  at  a  loss,  as  to  my  future  course.  True,  as  you 
have  said  to  me,  I  might  mingle  in  the  circles  of  the  whites,  in  this 
country,  my  shade  of  color  is  so  slight,  and  that  of  my  wife  and  fam 
ily  scarce  perceptible.  Well,  perhaps,  on  sufferance,  I  might.  But, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  no  wish  to. 

"  My  sympathies  are  not  for  my  father's  race,  but  for  my  moth 
er's.  To  him  I  was  no  more  than  a  fine  dog  or  horse  ;  to  my  poor 
heart-broken  mother  I  was  a  child ;  and,  though  I  never  saw  her, 
after  the  cruel  sale  that  separated  us,  till  she  died,  yet  I  know  she 
always  loved .  me  dearly.  I  know  it  by  my  own  heart.  When  I 
think  of  all  she  suffered,  of  my  own  early  sufferings,  of  the  distresses 
and  struggles  of  my  heroic  wife,  of  my  sister,  sold  in  the  New  Or 
leans  slave-market,  —  though  I  hope  to  have  no  unchristian  senti 
ments,  yet  I  may  be  excused  for  saying,  I  have  no  wish  to  pass  for 
an  American,  or  to  identify  myself  with  them. 

"  It  is  with  the  oppressed,  enslaved  African  race  that  I  cast  in  my 
lot  ;  and,  if  I  wished  anything,  I  would  wish  myself  two  shades 
darker,  rather  than  one  lighter. 

"  The  desire  and  yearning  of  my  soul  is  for  an  African  nationality. 
I  want  a  people  that  shall  have  a  tangible,  separate  existence  of  its 
own  ;  and  where  am  I  to  look  for  it  ?  Not  in  Hayti  ;  for  in  Hayti 
they  had  nothing  to  start  with.  A  stream  cannot  rise  above  its  foun 
tain.  The  race  that  formed  the  character  of  the  Haytiens  was  a 
worn-out,  effeminate  one  ;  and,  of  course,  the  subject  race  will  be 
centuries  in  rising  to  anything1. 

"  Where,  then,  shall  I  look  9     On  the  shores  of  Africa  I  see  A  re« 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  483 

public,  —  a  republic  formed  of  picked  men,  who,  by  energy  and  self- 
educating  force,  have,  in  many  cases,  individually,  raised  themselves 
above  a  condition  of  slavery.  Having  gone  through  a  preparatory 
stage  of  feebleness,  this  republic  has,  at  last,  become  an  acknowl 
edged  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  —  acknowledged  by  both 
France  and  England.  There  it  is  my  wish  to  go,  and  find  myself  a 
people. 

"  I  am  aware,  now,  that  I  shall  have  you  all  against  me  ;  but, 
before  you  strike,  hear  me.  During  my  stay  in  France,  I  have  fol 
lowed  up,  with  intense  interest,  the  history  of  my  people  in  America. 
I  have  noted  the  struggle  between  abolitionist  and  colonizationist, 
and  have  received  some  impressions,  as  a  distant  spectator,  which 
could  never  have  occurred  to  me  as  a  participator. 

"  I  grant  that  this  Liberia  may  have  subserved  all  sorts  of  pur 
poses,  by  being  played  off,  in  the  hands  of  our  oppressors,  against 
us.  Doubtless  the  scheme  may  have  been  used,  in  unjustifiable 
ways,  as  a  means  of  retarding  our  emancipation.  But  the  question 
to  me  is,  Is  there  not  a  God  above  all  man's  schemes  ?  May  he  not 
have  overruled  their  designs,  and  founded  for  us  a  nation  by 
them  ? 

"  In  these  days,  a  nation  is  born  in  a  day.  A  nation  starts,  now, 
with  all  the  great  problems  of  republican  life  and  civilization  wrought 
out  to  its  hand  ;  —  it  has  not  to  discover,  but  only  to  apply.  Let  us, 
then,  all  take  hold  together,  with  all  our  might,  and  see  what  we 
can  do  with  this  new  enterprise,  and  the  whole  splendid  continent 
of  Africa  opens  before  us  and  our  children.  Oar  nation  shall  roll 
the  tide  of  civilization  and  Christianity  along  its  shores,  and  plant 
there  mighty  republics,  that,  growing  with  the  rapidity  of  tropical 
vegetation,  shall  be  for  all  coming  ages. 

"  Do  you  say  that  I  am  deserting  my  enslaved  brethren  ?  I  think 
not.  If  I  forget  them  one  hour,  one  moment  of  my  life,  so  may 
God  forget  me  !  But,  what  can  I  do  for  them  here  ?  Can  I  break 
their  chains  ?  No,  not  as  an  individual  ;  but,  let  me  go  and  form 
part  of  a  nation,  which  shall  have  a  voice  in  the  councils  of  nations, 
and  then  we  can  speak.  A  nation  has  a  right  to  argue,  remonstrate, 
implore,  and  present  the  cause  of  its  race,  —  which  an  individual 
has  not. 

"  If  Europe  ever  becomes  a  grand  council  of  free  nations,  —  as  I 
trust  in  God  it  will,  —  if,  there,  serfdom,  and  all  unjust  and  oppres 
sive  social  inequalities,  are  done  away  ;  and  if  they,  as  France  and 
England  have  done,  acknowledge  our  position,  —  then,  in  the  great 
congress  of  nations,  we  will  make  our  appeal,  and  present  the  cause 
sf  our  enslaved  and  suffering  race  ;  and  it  cannot  be  that  free,  en- 


484  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

lightened  America  will  not  then  desire  to  wipe  from  her  escutcheoi 
that  bar  sinister  which  disgraces  her  among  nations,  and  is  as  truly  a 
curse  to  her  as  to  the  enslaved. 

"  But,  you  will  tell  me,  our  race  have  equal  rights  to  mingle  in  the 
American  republic  as  the  Irishman,  the  German,  and  the  Swede. 
Granted,  they  have.  We  ought  to  be  free  to  meet  and  mingle,  —  to 
rise  by  our  individual  worth,  without  any  consideration  of  caste  or 
color  ;  and  they  who  deny  us  this  right  are  false  to  their  own  pro 
fessed  principles  of  human  equality.  We  ought,  in  particular,  to  be 
allowed  here.  We  have  more  than  the  rights  of  common  men  ;  — 
we  have  the  claim  of  an  injured  race  for  reparation.  But,  then,  / 
do  not  want  it  ;  I  want  a  country,  a  nation,  of  my  own.  I  think  that 
the  African  race  has  peculiarities,  yet  to  be  unfolded  in  the  light  of 
civilization  and  Christianity,  which,  if  not  the  same  with  those  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon,  may  prove  to  be,  morally,  of  even  a  higher  type. 

"  To  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  has  been  intrusted  the  destinies  of  the 
world,  during  its  pioneer  period  of  struggle  and  conflict.  To  that 
mission  its  stern,  inflexible,  energetic  elements  were  well  adapted  ; 
but,  as  a  Christian,  I  look  for  another  era  to  arise.  On  its  borders  I 
trust  we  stand  ;  and  the  throes  that  now  convulse  the  nations  are, 
to  my  hope,  but  the  birth-pangs  of  an  hour  of  universal  peace  and 
brotherhood. 

"  I  trust  that  the  development  of  Africa  is  to  be  essentially  a 
Christian  one.  If  not  a  dominant  and  commanding  race,  they  are, 
at  least,  an  affectionate,  magnanimous,  and  forgiving  one.  Having 
been  called  in  the  furnace  of  injustice  and  oppression,  they  have 
need  to  bind  closer  to  their  hearts  that  sublime  doctrine  of  love  and 
forgiveness,  through  which  alone  they  are  to  conquer,  which  it  is  to 
be  their  mission  to  spread  over  the  continent  of  Africa. 

"  In  myself,  I  confess,  I  am  feeble  for  this,  —  full  half  the  blood 
in  my  veins  is  the  hot  and  hasty  Saxon  ;  but  I  have  an  eloquent 
preacher  of  the  Gospel  ever  by  my  side,  in  the  person  of  my  beauti 
ful  wife.  When  I  wander,  her  gentler  spirit  ever  restores  me,  and 
keeps  before  my  eyes  the  Christian  calling  and  mission  of  our  race. 
As  a  Christian  patriot,  as  a  teacher  of  Christianity,  I  go  to  my 
country,  —  my  chosen,  my  glorious  Africa  !  —  and  to  her,  in  my  heart, 
I  sometimes  apply  those  splendid  words  of  prophecy  :  *  Whereas 
thou  hast  been  forsaken  and  hated,  so  that  no  man  went  through 
thee  ;  1  will  make  thee  an  eternal  excellence,  a  joy  of  many  genera 
tions  ! ' 

"  You  will  call  me  an  enthusiast  :  you  will  tell  me  that  I  hava 
not  well  considered  what  I  am  undertaking.  But  I  have  considered, 
and  counted  the  cost.  I  go  to  Liberia,  not  as  to  an  Elysium  of  ro. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  485 

toiance,  but  as  to  afield  of  work.  I  expect  to  work  with  both  hands, 
—  to  work  hard  y  to  work  against  all  sorts  of  difficulties  and  dis 
couragements  ;  and  to  work  till  I  die.  This  is  what  I  go  for  ;  and 
in  this  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  not  be  disappointed. 

"  Whatever  you  may  think  of  my  determination,  do  not  divorce 
me  from  your  confidence  ;  and  think  that,  in  whatever  I  do,  I  act 
with  a  heart  wholly  given  to  my  people. 

"GEORGE  HARRIS." 

George,  with  his  wife,  children,  sister,  and  mother,  embarked 
for  Africa,  some  few  weeks  after.  If  we  are  not  mistaken,  the 
world  will  yet  hear  from  him  there. 

Of  our  other  characters  we  have  nothing  very  particular  to 
write,  except  a  word  relating  to  Miss  Ophelia  and  Topsy,  and  a 
farewell  chapter,  which  we  shall  dedicate  to  George  Shelby. 

Miss  Ophelia  took  Topsy  home  to  Vermont  with  her,  much 
to  the  surprise  of  that  grave  deliberative  body  whom  a  New- 
Englander  recognizes  under  the  term  "  Our  folks."  "  Our 
folks,"  at  first,  thought  it  an  odd  and  unnecessary  addition  to 
their  well-trained  domestic  establishment;  but,  so  thoroughly 
efficient  was  Miss  Ophelia  in  her  conscientious  endeavor  to  do 
her  duty  by  her  eleve,  that  the  child  rapidly  grew  in  grace  and 
in  favor  with  the  family  and  neighborhood.  At  the  age  of 
womanhood,  she  was,  by  her  own  request,  baptized,  and  became 
a  member  of  the  Christian  church  in  the  place ;  and  showed  so 
much  intelligence,  activity,  and  zeal,  and  desire  to  do  good  in 
the  world,  that  she  was  at  last  recommended,  and  approved,  as 
a  missionary  to  one  of  the  stations  in  Africa ;  and  we  have 
heard  that  the  same  activity  and  ingenuity  which,  when  a  child, 
made  her  so  multiform  and  restless  in  her  developments,  is  now 
employed,  in  a  safer  and  wholesomer  manner,  in  teaching  the 
children  of  her  own  country. 

P.  S.  —  It  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  some  mother,  also,  to  state, 
that  some  inquiries,  which  were  set  on  foot  by  Madame  de 
Thoux,  have  resulted  recently  in  the  discovery  of  Cassy's  son. 
Being  a  young  man  of  energy,  he  had  escaped,  some  years  be 
fore  his  mother,  and  been  received  and  educated  by  friends  of 
the  oppressed  in  the  north.  He  will  soon  follow  his  family  to 
Africa. 


486  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  OB, 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

THE    LIBERATOR. 

GEORGE  SHELBY  had  written  to  his  mother  merely  a  line, 
stating  the  day  that  she  might  expect  him  home.  Of  the  death 
scene  of  his  old  friend  he  had  not  the  heart  to  write.  He  had 
tried  several  times,  and  only  succeeded  in  half  choking  himself ; 
and  invariably  finished  by  tearing  up  the  paper,  wiping  his  eyes, 
and  rushing  somewhere  to  get  quiet. 

There  was  a  pleased  bustle  all  through  the  Shelby  mansion, 
that  day,  in  expectation  of  the  arrival  of  young  Mas'r  George. 

Mrs.  Shelby  was  seated  in  her  comfortable  parlor,  where  a 
cheerful  hickory  fire  was  dispelling  the  chill  of  the  late  autumn 
evening.  A  supper-table,  glittering  with  plate  and  cut  glass, 
was  set  out,  on  whose  arrangements  our  former  friend,  old 
Chloe,  was  presiding. 

Arrayed  in  a  new  calico  dress,  with  clean,  white  apron,  and 
high,  well-starched  turban,  her  black  polished  face  glowing  with 
satisfaction,  she  lingered,  with  needless  punctiliousness,  around 
the  arrangements  of  the  table,  merely  as  an  excuse  for  talking 
a  little  to  her  mistress. 

"Laws,  now!  won't  it  look  natural  to  him?"  she  said. 
"Thar, —  I  set  his  plate  just  whar  he  likes  it,  —  round  by  the 
fire.  Mas'r  George  allers  wants  de  warm  seat.  Oh,  go  way  ! 
—  why  did  n't  Sally  get  out  de  best  teapot,  —  de  little  new  one, 
Mas'r  George  got  for  Missis,  Christmas?  I'll  have  it  out! 
And  Missis  has  heard  from  Mas'r  George  ? "  she  said,  in 
quiringly. 

"  Yes,  Chloe ;  but  only  a  line,  just  to  say  he  would  be  home 
vo-night,  if  he  could,  —  that 's  all." 

"  Did  n't  say  nothin'  'bout  my  old  man,  s'pose  ?  "  said  Chloe, 
till  fidgeting  with  the  teacups. 

"  No,  he  did  n't.  He  did  not  speak  of  anything,  Chloe.  He 
Ve  would  tell  all  when  he  pot  home." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  487 

"  Jes  like  Mas'r  George,  —  he  's  allers  so  ferce  for  tellin' 
everything  hisself.  I  allers  minded  dat  ar  in  Mas'r  George. 
Don't  see,  for  my  part,  how  white  people  gen'lly  can  bar  to  hev 
to  write  things  much  as  they  do,  writin'  's  such  slow,  oneasy  kind 
o'  work." 

Mrs.  Shelby  smiled. 

"  I  'm  a  thinkin'  my  old  man  won't  know  de  boys  and  de 
baby.  Lor' !  she 's  de  biggest  gal,  now,  —  good  she  is,  too,  and 
peart,  Polly  is.  She  's  out  to  the  house,  now,  watchin'  de  hoe- 
cake.  I 's  got  jist  de  very  pattern  my  old  man  liked  so  much, 
a  bakin'.  Jist  sich  as  I  gin  him  the  inornin'  he  was  took  off. 
Lord  bless  us  !  how  I  felt  dat  ar  morning !  " 

Mrs.  Shelby  sighed,  and  felt  a  heavy  weight  on  her  heart,  at 
this  allusion.  She  had  felt  uneasy,  ever  since  she  received  her 
son's  letter,  lest  something  should  prove  to  be  hidden  behind  the 
veil  of  silence  which  he  had  drawn. 

"  Missis  has  got  dem  bills  ?  "  said  Chloe,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  Chloe." 

"  'Cause  I  wants  to  show  my  old  man  dem  very  bills  de  per- 
fectioner  gave  me.  '  And,'  says  he,  '  Chloe,  I  wish  you  'd  stay 
longer.'  *  Thank  you,  Mas'r,'  says  I,  'I  would,  only  my  old 
man  's  coming  home,  and  Missis,  —  she  can't  do  without  me  no 
longer.'  There  's  jist  what  I  telled  him.  Berry  nice  man,  dat 
Mas'r  Jones  was." 

Chloe  had  pertinaciously  insisted  that  the  very  bills  in  which 
her  wages  had  been  paid  should  be  preserved,  to  show  to  her 
husband,  in  memorial  of  her  capability.  And  Mrs.  Shelby  had 
readily  consented  to  humor  her  in  the  request. 

"  He  won't  know  Polly,  —  my  old  man  won't.  Laws,  it 's 
five  year  since  they  tuck  him  !  She  was  a  baby  den,  —  could  n't 
but  jist  stand.  Eemember  how  tickled  he  used  to  be,  'cause  she 
would  keep  a  fallin'  over,  when  she  sot  out  to  walk.  Laws  a 
me  !  " 

The  rattling  of  wheels  now  was  heard. 

"  Mas'r  George  !  "  said  Aunt  Chloe,  starting  to  the  window. 

Mrs.  Shelby  ran  to  the  entry  door,  and  was  folded  in  the 
arms  of  her  son.  Aunt  Chloe  stood  anxiously  straining  her  eyes 
out  into  the  darkness. 

"  Oh,  poor  Aunt  Chloe !  "  said  George,  stopping  compassion- 


488  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

ately,  and  taking  her  hard,  black  hand  between  both  his  ;  "  I  'd 
have  given  all  my  fortune  to  have  brought  him  with  me,  but 
he  's  gone  to  a  better  country." 

There  was  a  passionate  exclamation  from  Mrs.  Shelby,  but 
Aunt  Chloe  said  nothing. 

The  party  entered  the  supper-room.  The  money,  of  which 
Chloe  was  so  proud,  was  still  lying  on  the  table. 

"  Thar,"  said  she,  gathering  it  up,  and  holding  it,  with  a 
trembling  hand,  to  her  mistress,  "  don't  never  want  to  see  nor 
hear  on 't  again.  Jist  as  I  knew 't  would  be,  —  sold,  and  mur 
dered  on  dem  ar  old  plantations  !  " 

Chloe  turned,  and  was  walking  proudly  out  of  the  room.  Mrs. 
Shelby  followed  her  softly  and  took  one  of  her  hands,  drew  her 
down  into  a  chair,  and  sat  down  by  her. 

"  My  poor,  good  Chloe  !  "  said  she. 

Chloe  leaned  her  head  on  her  mistress's  shoulder,  and  sobbed 
out,  "  Oh,  Missis  !  'sense  me,  my  heart 's  broke,  —  dat  's  all !  " 

"  I  know  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  as  her  tears  fell  fast ;  "  and 
/cannot  heal  it,  but  Jesus  can.  He  healeth  the  broken-hearted, 
and  bindeth  up  their  wounds." 

There  was  a  silence  for  some  time,  and  all  wept  together.  At 
last,  George,  sitting  down  beside  the  mourner,  took  her  hand, 
and,  with  simple  pathos,  repeated  the  triumphant  scene  of  her 
husband's  death,  and  his  last  messages  of  love. 

About  a  month  after  this,  one  morning,  all  the  servants  of  the 
Shelby  estate  were  convened  together  in  the  great  hall  that  ran 
through  the  house,  to  hear  a  few  words  from  their  young  mas 
ter. 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  he  appeared  among  them  with  a  bundle 
of  papers  in  his  hand,  containing  a  certificate  of  freedom  to 
every  one  on  the  place,  which  he  read  successively,  and  pre 
sented,  amid  the  sobs  and  tears  and  shouts  of  all  present. 

Many,  however,  pressed  around  him,  earnestly  begging  him 
not  to  send  them  away  ;  and,  with  anxious  faces,  tendering  back 
their  free  papers. 

"  We  don't  want  to  be  no  freer  than  we  are.  We  's  allera 
had  all  we  wanted.  We  don't  want  to  leave  de  ole  place,  and 
Mas'r  and  Missis,  and  de  rest !  " 

"  My  good  friends,''  said  George,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  a 


LIFE  AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  489 

silence,  "  there  '11  be  no  need  for  you  to  leave  me.  The  place 
wants  as  many  hands  to  work  it  as  it  did  before.  We  need  the 
same  about  the  house  that  we  did  before.  But,  you  are  now 
free  men  and  free  women.  I  shall  pay  you  wages  for  your 
work,  such  as  we  shall  agree  on.  The  advantage  is,  that  in  case 
of  my  getting  in  debt,  or  dying,  —  things  that  might  happen, 
—  you  cannot  now  be  taken  up  and  sold.  I  expect  to  carry  on 
the  estate,  and  to  teach  you  what,  perhaps,  it  will  take  you 
some  time  to  learn,  —  how  to  use  the  rights  I  give  you  as  free 
men  and  women.  I  expect  you  to  be  good,  and  willing  to 
learn ;  and  I  trust  in  God  that  I  shall  be  faithful,  and  willing 
to  teach.  And  now,  my  friends,  look  up,  and  thank  God  for 
the  blessing  of  freedom." 

An  aged,  patriarchal  negro,  who  had  grown  gray  and  blind 
on  the  estate,  now  rose,  and,  lifting  his  trembling  hand,  said, 
"  Let  us  give  thanks  unto  the  Lord  !  "  As  all  kneeled  by  one 
consent,  a  more  touching  and  hearty  Te  Deum  never  ascended 
to  heaven,  though  borne  on  the  peal  of  organ,  bell,  and  cannon, 
than  came  from  that  honest  old  heart. 

On  rising,  another  struck  up  a  Methodist  hymn,  of  which  the 
burden  was,  — 

"  The  year  of  Jubilee  is  come,  — 
Return,  ye  ransomed  sinners,  home." 

"  One  thing  more,"  said  George,  as  he  stopped  the  congratu 
lations  of  the  throng  ;  "  you  all  remember  our  good  old  Uncle 
Tom  ?  " 

George  here  gave  a  short  narration  of  the  scene  of  his  death, 
and  of  his  loving  farewell  to  all  on  the  place,  and  added,  — 

"  It  was  on  his  grave,  my  friends,  that  I  resolved,  before  God, 
that  I  would  never  own  another  slave,  while  it  was  possible  to 
free  him ;  that  nobody,  through  me,  should  ever  run  the  risk  of 
being  parted  from  home  and  friends,  and  dying  on  a  lonely 
plantation,  as  he  died.  So,  when  you  rejoice  in  your  freedom, 
think  that  you  owe  it  to  that  good  old  soul,  and  pay  it  back  in 
kindness  to  his  wife  and  children.  Think  of  your  freedom, 
every  time  you  see  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  and  let  it  be  a  me 
morial  to  put  you  all  in  mind  to  follow  in  his  steps,  and  be  as 
honest  and  faithful  and  Christian  as  he  was." 


490  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  ;  ORS 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

CONCLUDING   REMARKS. 

THE  writer  has  often  been  inquired  of,  by  correspondents 
from  different  parts  of  the  country,  whether  this  narrative  is  a 
true  one ;  and  to  these  inquiries  she  will  give  one  general  an 
swer. 

The  separate  incidents  that  compose  the  narrative  are,  to  a 
very  great  extent,  authentic,  occurring,  many  of  them,  either 
under  her  own  observation  or  that  of  her  personal  friends.  She 
or  her  friends  have  observed  characters  the  counterpart  of  al 
most  all  that  are  here  introduced ;  and  many  of  the  sayings  are 
word  for  word  as  heard  herself,  or  reported  to  her. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Eliza,  the  character  ascribed  to 
her,  are  sketches  drawn  from  life.  The  incorruptible  fidelity, 
piety,  and  honesty  of  Uncle  Tom  had  more  than  one  develop 
ment,  to  her  personal  knowledge.  Some  of  the  most  deeply 
tragic  and  romantic,  some  of  the  most  terrible  incidents,  have 
also  their  parallel  in  reality.  The  incident  of  the  mother's 
crossing  the  Ohio  River  on  the  ice  is  a  well-known  fact.  The 
story  of  "  old  Prue  "  (Chapter  XIX.)  was  an  incident  that  fell 
under  the  personal  observation  of  a  brother  of  the  writer,  then 
collecting-clerk  to  a  large  mercantile  house  in  New  Orleans. 
From  the  same  source  was  derived  the  character  of  the  planter 
Legree.  Of  him  her  brother  thus  wrote,  speaking  of  visiting  his 
plantation  on  a  collecting  tour  :  "  He  actually  made  me  feel  of  hi^ 
fist,  which  was  like  a  blacksmith's  hammer,  or  a  nodule  of  iron, 
telling  me  that  it  was  <  calloused  with  knocking  down  niggers.' 
When  I  left  the  plantation,  I  drew  a  Jong  breath,  and  felt  as  if 
I  had  escaped  from  an  ogre's  den." 

That  the  tragical  fate  of  Tom,  also,  has  too  many  times  had 
its  parallel,  there  are  living  witnesses,  all  over  our  land,  to  tes 
tify.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  in  all  Southern  States  it  is  » 


LIFE   AMONG  THE    LOWLY.  491 

principle  of  jurisprudence  that  no  person  of  colored  lineage  can 
testify  in  a  suit  against  a  white,  and  it  will  be  easy  to  see  that 
such  a  case  may  occur,  wherever  there  is  a  man  whose  passions 
outweigh  his  interests,  and  a  slave  who  has  manhood  or  princi 
ple  enough  to  resist  his  will.  There  is,  actually,  nothing  to  pro 
tect  the  slave's  life,  but  the  character  of  the  master.  Facts  toff 
shocking  to  be  contemplated  occasionally  force  their  way  to  the 
public  ear,  and  the  comment  that  one  often  hears  made  on  them 
is  more  shocking  than  the  thing  itself.  It  is  said,  "  Very  likely 
such  cases  may  now  and  then  occur,  but  they  are  no  sample  of 
general  practice."  If  the  laws  of  New  England  were  so  ar 
ranged  that  a  master  could  now  and  then  torture  an  apprentice 
to  death,  without  a  possibility  of  being  brought  to  justice,  would 
it  be  received  with  equal  composure  ?  Would  it  be  said,  "  These 
cases  are  rare,  and  no  samples  of  general  practice  ?  "  This  in 
justice  is  an  inherent  one  in  the  slave  system,  —  it  cannot  exist 
without  it. 

The  public  and  shameless  sale  of  beautiful  mulatto  and  quad 
roon  girls  has  acquired  a  notoriety,  from  the  incidents  following 
the  capture  of  the  Pearl.  We  extract  the  following  from  the 
speech  of  Hon.  Horace  Mann,  one  of  the  legal  counsel  for  the 
defendants  in  that  case.  He  says  :  "  In  that  company  of  sev 
enty-six  persons,  who  attempted,  in  1848,  to  escape  from  the 
District  of  Columbia  in  the  schooner  Pearl,  and  whose  officers  I 
assisted  in  defending,  there  were  several  young  and  healthy  girls, 
who  had  those  peculiar  attractions  of  form  and  feature  which 
connoisseurs  prize  so  highly.  Elizabeth  Russel  was  one  of  them. 
She  immediately  fell  into  the  slave  -  trader's  fangs,  and  was 
doomed  for  the  New  Orleans  market.  The  hearts  of  those  that 
saw  her  were  touched  with  pity  for  her  fate.  They  offered 
eighteen  hundred  dollars  to  redeem  her ;  and  some  there  were 
who  offered  to  give,  that  would  not  have  much  left  after  the 
gift ;  but  the  fiend  of  a  slave-trader  was  inexorable.  She  was 
dispatched  to  New  Orleans  ;  but,  when  about  half-way  there, 
God  had  mercy  on  her,  and  smote  her  with  death.  There  were 
two  girls  named  Edmundson  in  the  same  company.  When  about 
to  be  sent  to  the  same  market,  an  older  sister  went  to  the  sham 
bles,  to  plead  with  the  wretch  who  owned  them,  for  the  love  of 
God,  to  spare  his  victims.  He  bantered  her,  telling  what  fine 


492  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

dresses  and  fine  furniture  they  would  have.  *  Yes,'  she  said, 
'  that  may  do  very  well  in  this  life,  but  what  will  become  of 
them  in  the  next  ?  '  They  too  were  sent  to  New  Orleans  ;  but 
were  afterwards  redeemed,  at  an  enormous  ransom,  and  brought 
back."  Is  it  not  plain,  from  this,  that  the  histories  of  Emmeline 
and  Cassy  may  have  many  counterparts  ? 

Justice,  too,  obliges  the  author  to  state  that  the  fairness  of 
mind  and  generosity  attributed  to  St.  Clare  are  not  without  a 
parallel,  as  the  following  anecdote  will  show.  A  few  years 
since,  a  young  southern  gentleman  was  in  Cincinnati,  with  a 
favorite  servant,  who  had  been  his  personal  attendant  from  a 
boy.  The  young  man  took  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to 
secure  his  own  freedom,  and  fled  to  the  protection  of  a  Quaker, 
who  was  quite  noted  in  affairs  of  this  kind.  The  owner  was 
exceedingly  indignant.  He  had  always  treated  the  slave  with 
such  indulgence,  and  his  confidence  in  his  affection  was  such, 
that  he  believed  he  must  have  been  practised  upon  to  induce 
him  to  revolt  from  him.  He  visited  the  Quaker,  in  high  anger ; 
but>  being  possessed  of  uncommon  candor  and  fairness,  was 
soon  quieted  by  his  arguments  and  representations.  It  was  a 
side  of  the  subject  which  he  never  had  heard,  —  never  had 
thought  on ;  and  he  immediately  told  the  Quaker  that,  if  his 
slave  would,  to  his  own  face,  say  that  it  was  his  desire  to  be 
free,  he  would  liberate  him.  An  interview  was  forthwith  pro 
cured,  and  Nathan  was  asked  by  his  young  master  whether  he 
laad  ever  had  any  reason  to  complain  of  his  treatment,  in  any 
respect. 

"No,  Mas'r,"  said  Nathan;  "you've  always  been  good  to 
me." 

"  Well,  then,  why  do  you  want  to  leave  me  ?  " 

"  Mas'r  may  die,  and  then  who  get  me  ?  —  I  'd  rather  be  a 
free  man." 

After  some  deliberation,  the  young  master  replied,  "  Nathan, 
in  your  place,  I  think  I  should  feel  very  much  so,  myself.  You 
are  free." 

He  immediately  made  him  out  free  papers  ;  deposited  a  sum 
of  money  in  the  hands  of  the  Quaker,  to  be  judiciously  used  in 
assisting  him  to  start  in  life,  and  left  a  very  sensible  and  kind 
letter  of  advice  to  the  young  man.  That  letter  was  for  some 
time  in  the  writer's  hands. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  493 

The  author  hopes  she  has  clone  justice  to  that  nobility,  gen 
erosity,  and  humanity,  which  in   many  cases   characterize  indi-, 
viduals  at  the  south.     Such  instances  save  us  from  utter  despair  j 
of  pur  kind.     But,  she  asks  any  person  who  knows  the  world, v 
are  such  characters  common,  anywhere  ? 

For  many  years  of  her  life,  the  author  avoided  all  reading 
upon  or  allusion  to  the  subject  of  slavery,  considering  it  as  too 
painful  to  be  inquired  into,  and  one  which  advancing  light  and 
civilization  would  certainly  live  down.  But,  since  the  legisla 
tive  act  of  1850,  when  she  heard,  with  perfect  surprise  and 
consternation,  Christian  and  humane  people  actually  recom 
mending  the  remanding  escaped  fugitives  into  slavery,  as  a 
duty  binding  on  good  citizens,  —  when  she  heard,  on  all  hands, 
from  kind,  compassionate,  and  estimable  people,  in  the  free 
states  of  the  north,  deliberations  and  discussions  as  to  what 
Christian  duty  could  be  on  this  head,  —  she  could  only  think, 
These  men  and  Christians  cannot  know  what  slavery  is;  if 
they  did,  such  a  question  could  never  be  open  for  discussion. 
And  from  this  arose  a  desire  to  exhibit  it  in  a  living  dramatic 
reality.  She  has  endeavored  to  show  it  fairly,  in  its  best  and 
its  worst  phases.  In  its  best  aspect,  she  has,  perhaps,  been  suc 
cessful  ;  but,  oh !  who  shall  say  what  yet  remains  untold  in  that 
valley  and  shadow  of  death  that  lies  the  other  side  ? 

To  you,  generous,  noble  -  minded  men  and  women,  of  the 
south,  —  you,  whose  virtue,  and  magnanimity,  and  purity  of 
character,  are  the  greater  for  the  severer  trial  it  has  encoun 
tered,  —  to  you  is  her  appeal.  Have  you  not,  in  your  own 
secret  souls,  in  your  own  private  conversings,  felt  that  there  are 
woes  and  evils,  in  this  accursed  system,  far  beyond  what  are 
here  shadowed,  or  can  be  shadowed  ?  Can  it  be  otherwise  ? 
Is  man  ever  a  creature  to  be  trusted  with  wholly  irresponsible 
power  ?  And  does  not  the  slave  system,  by  denying  the  slave 
all  legal  right  of  testimony,  make  every  individual  owner  an 
irresponsible  despot  ?  Can  anybody  fail  to  make  the  inference 
what  the  practical  result  will  be  ?  If  there  is,  as  we  admit,  a 
public  sentiment  among  you,  men  of  honor,  justice,  and  human 
ity,  is  there  not  al&D  another  kind  of  public  sentiment  among 
the  ruffian,  the  brutal,  and  debased  ?  And  cannot  the  ruffian, 
the  brutal,  the  debased,  by  slave  law,  own  just  as  many  slaves 


494  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

as  the  best  and  purest  ?  Are  the  honorable,  the  just,  the  high* 
minded  and  compassionate,  the  majority  anywhere  in  this 
world  ? 

The  slave  -  trade  is  now,  by  American  law,  considered  as 
piracy.  But  a  slave-trade,  as  systematic  as  ever  was  carried  on 
on  the  coast  of  Africa,  is  an  inevitable  attendant  and  result  of 
American  slavery.  And  its  heart-break  and  its  horrors,  can 
they  be  told  ? 

The  writer  has  given  only  a  faint  shadow,  a  dim  picture,  of 
the  anguish  and  despair  that  are,  at  this  very  moment,  riving 
thousands  of  hearts,  shattering  thousands  of  families,  and  driv 
ing  a  helpless  and  sensitive  race  to  frenzy  and  despair.  There 
are  those  living  who  know  the  mothers  whom  this  accursed  traf 
fic  has  driven  to  the  murder  of  their  children  ;  and  themselves 
seeking  in  death  a  shelter  from  woes  more  dreaded  than  death. 
Nothing  of  tragedy  can  be  written,  can  be  spoken,  can  be  con 
ceived,  that  equals  the  frightful  reality  of  scenes  daily  and 
hourly  acting  on  our  shores,  beneath  the  shadow  of  American 
law,  and  the  shadow  of  the  cross  of  Christ. 

And  now,  men  and  women  of  America,  is  this  a  thing  to  be 
trifled  with,  apologized  for,  and  passed  over  in  silence  ?  Farm 
ers  of  Massachusetts,  of  New  Hampshire,  of  Vermont,  of  Con 
necticut,  who  read  this  book  by  the  blaze  of  your  winter-evening 
fire,  —  strong  -  hearted,  generous  sailors  and  ship  -  owners  of 
Maine,  —  is  this  a  thing  for  you  to  countenance  and  encourage  ? 
Brave  and  generous  men  of  New  York,  farmers  of  rich  and  joy 
ous  Ohio,  and  ye  of  the  wide  prairie  states,  —  answer,  is  this  a 
thing  for  you  to  protect  and  countenance  ?  And  you,  mothers 
of  America, — you,  who  have  learned,  by  the  cradles  of  your 
own  children,  to  love  and  feel  for  all  mankind,  —  by  the  sacred 
love  you  bear  your  child ;  by  your  joy  in  his  beautiful,  spotless 
infancy  ;  by  the  motherly  pity  and  tenderness  with  which  you 
guide  his  growing  years ;  by  the  anxieties  of  his  education  ;  by 
the  prayers  you  breathe  for  his  soul's  eternal  good  ;  —  I  beseech 
you,  pity  the  mother  who  has  all  your  affections,  and  not  one 
legal  right  to  protect,  guide,  or  educate  the  child  of  her  bosom  ! 
By  the  sick  hour  of  your  child ;  by  those  dying  eyes,  which  you 
can  never  forget;  by  those  last  cries,  that  wrung  your  heart 
when  you  could  neither  help  nor  save  ;  by  the  desolation  of  that 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  495 

empty  cradle,  that  silent  nursery,  —  I  beseech  you,  pity  those 
mothers  that  are  constantly  made  childless  by  the  American 
slave-trade !  And  say,  mothers  of  America,  is  this  a  thing  to 
be  defended,  sympathized  with,  passed  over  in  silence  ? 

Do  you  say  that  the  people  of  the  free  states  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it,  and  can  do  nothing  ?  Would  to  God  this  were  true  ! 
But  it  is  not  true.  The  people  of  the  free  states  have  defended, 
encouraged,  and  participated ;  and  are  more  guilty  for  it,  be 
fore  God,  than  the  south,  in  that  they  have  not  the  apology  of 
education  or  custom. 

If  the  mothers  of  the  free  states  had  all  felt  as  they  should, 
in  times  past,  the  sons  of  the  free  states  would  not  have  been 
the  holders,  and,  proverbially,  the  hardest  masters  of  slaves ; 
the  sons  of  the  free  states  would  not  have  connived  at  the  ex 
tension  of  slavery,  in  our  national  body  ;  the  sons  of  the  free 
states  would  not,  as  they  do,  trade  the  souls  and  bodies  of  men 
as  an  equivalent  to  money,  in  their  mercantile  dealings.  There 
are  multitudes  of  slaves  temporarily  owned,  and  sold  again,  by 
merchants  in  northern  cities ;  and  shall  the  whole  guilt  or 
obloquy  of  slavery  fall  only  on  the  south  ? 

Northern  men,  northern  mothers,  northern  Christians,  have 
something  more  to  do  than  denounce  their  brethren  at  the 
south ;  they  have  to  look  to  the  evil  among  themselves. 

But,  what  can  any  individual  do  ?  Of  that,  every  individual 
can  judge.  There  is  one  thing  that  every  individual  can  do,  — 
they  can  see  to  it  that  they  feel  right.  An  atmosphere  of  sym 
pathetic  influence  encircles  every  human  being ;  and  the  man  or 
woman  who  feels  strongly,  healthily,  and  justly  on  the  great 
interests  of  humanity,  is  a  constant  benefactor  to  the  human 
race.  See,  then,  to  your  sympathies  in  this  matter !  Are  they 
in  harmony  with  the  sympathies  of  Christ  ?  or  are  they  swayed 
and  perverted  by  the  sophistries  of  worldly  policy  ? 

Christian  men  and  women  of  the  north!  still  further,  —  you 
have  another  power ;  you  can  pray  !  Do  you  believe  in  prayer  ? 
or  has  it  become  an  indistinct  apostolic  tradition  ?  You  pray 
for  the  heathen  abroad  ;  pray  also  for  the  heathen  at  home. 
And  pray  for  those  distressed  Christians  whose  whole  chance  of 
religious  improvement  is  an  accident  of  trade  and  sale  ;  from 
whom  any  adherence  to  the  morals  of  Christianity  is,  in  many 


496  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN;  OR, 

cases,  an  impossibility,  unless  they  have  given  them,  from  above, 
the  courage  and  grace  of  martyrdom. 

But,  still  more.  On  the  shores  of  our  free  states  are  emerg 
ing  the  poor,  shattered,  broken  remnants  of  families,  — men  and 
women,  escaped,  by  miraculous  providences,  from  the  surges  of 
slavery,  —  feeble  in  knowledge,  and,  in  many  cases,  infirm  in 
moral  constitution,  from  a  system  which  confounds  and  confuses 
every  principle  of  Christianity  and  morality.  They  come  to 
seek  a  refuge  among  you  ;  they  come  to  seek  education,  knowl 
edge,  Christianity. 

What  do  you  owe  to  these  poor  unfortunates,  O  Christians  ? 
Does  not  every  American  Christian  owe  to  the  African  race 
some  effort  at  reparation  for  the  wrongs  that  the  American 
nation  has  brought  upon  them  ?  Shall  the  doors  of  churches 
and  school-houses  be  shut  upon  them  ?  Shall  states  arise  and 
shake  them  out  ?  Shall  the  Church  of  Christ  hear  in  silence 
the  taunt  that  is  thrown  at  them,  and  shrink  away  from  the 
helpless  hand  that  they  stretch  out ;  and,  by  her  silence,  en 
courage  the  cruelty  that  would  chase  them  from  our  borders  ? 
If  it  must  be  so,  it  will  be  a  mournful  spectacle.  If  it  must  be 
so,  the  country  will  have  reason  to  tremble,  when  it  remembers 
that  the  fate  of  nations  is  in  the  hands  of  One  who  is  very  piti 
ful,  and  of  tender  compassion. 

Do  you  say,  u  We  don't  want  them  here  ;  let  them  go  to 
Africa?" 

That  the  providence  of  God  has  provided  a  refuge  in  Africa, 
is,  indeed,  a  great  and  noticeable  fact;  but  that  is  no  reason 
why  the  Church  of  Christ  should  throw  off  that  responsibility  to 
this  outcast  race  which  her  profession  demands  of  her. 

To  fill  up  Liberia  witli  an  ignorant,  inexperienced,  half-bar 
barized  race,  just  escaped  from  the  chains  of  slavery,  would  be 
only  to  prolong,  for  ages,  the  period  of  struggle  and  conflict 
which  attends  the  inception  of  new  enterprises.  Let  the  Church 
of  the  north  receive  these  poor  sufferers  in  the  spirit  of  Christ ; 
receive  them  to  the  educating  advantages  of  Christian  republi 
can  society  and  schools,  until  they  have  attained  to  somewhat 
of  a  moral  and  intellectual  maturity,  and  then  assist  them  in 
their  passage  to  those  shores,  where  they  may  put  in  practice 
the  lessons  they  have  learned  in  America. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  497 

There  is  a  body  of  men  at  the  north,  comparatively  small, 
who  have  been  doing  this ;  and,  as  the  result,  this  country  has 
already  seen  examples  of  men,  formerly  slaves,  who  have  rap 
idly  acquired  property,  reputation,  and  education.  Talent  has 
been  developed,  which,  considering  the  circumstances,  is  cer 
tainly  remarkable ;  and,  for  moral  traits  of  honesty,  kindness, 
tenderness  of  feeling,  —  for  heroic  efforts  and  self-denials,  en 
dured  for  the  ransom  of  brethren  and  friends  yet  in  slavery,  — 
they  have  been  remarkable  to  a  degree  that,  considering  the 
influence  under  which  they  were  born,  is  surprising. 

The  writer  has  lived,  for  many  years,  on  the  frontier-line  of 
slave  states,  and  has  had  great  opportunities  of  observation 
among  those  who  formerly  were  slaves.  They  have  been  in 
her  family  as  servants ;  and,  in  default  of  any  other  school  to 
receive  them,  she  has,  in  many  cases,  had  them  instructed  in  a 
family  school,  with  her  own  children.  She  has  also  the  testi 
mony  of  missionaries,  among  the  fugitives  in  Canada,  in  coinci 
dence  with  her  own  experience  ;  and  her  deductions,  with  re 
gard  to  the  capabilities  of  the  race,  are  encouraging  in  the  high 
est  degree. 

The  first  desire  of  the  emancipated  slave,  generally,  is  for  edu 
cation.  There  is  nothing  that  they  are  not  willing  to  give  or 
do  to  have  their  children  instructed ;  and,  so  far  as  the  writer 
has  observed  herself,  or  taken  the  testimony  of  teachers  among 
them,  they  are  remarkably  intelligent  and  quick  to  learn.  The 
results  of  schools,  founded  for  them  by  benevolent  individuals 
in  Cincinnati,  fully  establish  this. 

The  author  gives  the  following  statement  of  facts,  on  the 
authority  of  Professor  C.  E.  Stowe,  then  of  Lane  Seminary, 
Ohio,  with  regard  to  emancipated  slaves,  now  resident  in  Cin 
cinnati  ;  given  to  show  the  capability  of  the  race,  even  without 
any  very  particular  assistance  or  encouragement. 

The  initial  letters  alone  are  given.  They  are  all  residents  of 
Cincinnati. 

"  B .     Furniture-maker  ;  twenty  years  in  the  city  ;  worth 

ten  thousand  dollars,  all  his  own  earnings ;  a  Baptist. 

"  C .     Full  black ;  stolen  from  Africa  ;  sold  in  New  Or 
leans  ;   been  free  fifteen  years ;  paid  for  himself  six  hundred 
dollars ;  a  farmer ;  owns  several  farms  in  Indiana ;  Presbyte- 
32 


498  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  ;   OR, 

rian  ;  probably  worth  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars,  all 
earned  by  himself. 

"  K .  Full  black ;  dealer  in  real  estate  ;  worth  thirty 

thousand  dollars ;  about  forty  years  old ;  free  six  years ;  paid 
eighteen  hundred  dollars  for  his  family ;  member  of  the  Baptist 
Church  ;  received  a  legacy  from  his  master,  which  he  has  taken 
good  care  of,  and  increased. 

"  G .  Full  black  ;  coal-dealer  ;  about  thirty  years  old  ; 

worth  eighteen  thousand  dollars ;  paid  for  himself  twice,  being 
once  defrauded  to  the  amount  of  sixteen  hundred  dollars ;  made 
all  his  money  by  his  own  efforts,  —  much  of  it  while  a  slave, 
hiring  his  time  of  his  master,  and  doing  business  for  himself ;  a 
fine,  gentlemanly  fellow. 

"  W .  Three  fourths  black  ;  barber  and  waiter  ;  from 

Kentucky ;  nineteen  years  free ;  paid  for  self  and  family  over 
three  thousand  dollars ;  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars,  all  his 
own  earnings  ;  deacon  in  the  Baptist  Church. 

"  G.  D .  Three  fourths  black ;  whitewasher ;  from  Ken 
tucky  ;  nine  years  free ;  paid  fifteen  hundred  dollars  for  self 
and  family ;  recently  died,  aged  sixty ;  wortli  six  thousand  dol 
lars." 

Professor  Stowe  says,  "  With  all  these,  except  G ,  I  have 

been,  for  some  years,  personally  acquainted,  and  make  my  state 
ments  from  my  own  knowledge." 

The  writer  well  remembers  an  aged  colored  woman,  who  was 
employed  as  a  washerwoman  in  her  father's  family.  The 
daughter  of  this  woman  married  a  slave.  She  was  a  remark 
ably  active  and  capable  young  woman,  and,  by  her  industry  and 
thrift,  and  the  most  persevering  self-denial,  raised  nine  hundred 
dollars  for  her  husband's  freedom,  which  she  paid,  as  she  raised 
it,  into  the  hands  of  his  master.  She  yet  wanted  a  hundred 
dollars  of  the  price,  when  he  died.  She  never  recovered  any 
of  the  money. 

These  are  but  few  facts,  among  multitudes  which  might  be 
adduced,  to  show  the  self-denial,  energy,  patience,  and  honesty, 
which  the  slave  has  exhibited  in  a  state  of  freedom. 

And  let  it  be  remembered  that  these  individuals  have  thus 
bravely  succeeded  in  conquering  for  themselves  comparative 
wealth  and  social  position,  in  the  face  of  every  disadvantage 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  499 

and  discouragement.  The  colored  man,  by  the  law  of  Ohio, 
cannot  be  a  voter,  and,  till  within  a  few  years,  was  even  denied 
the  right  of  testimony  in  legal  suits  with  the  white.  Nor  are 
these  instances  confined  to  the  State  of  Ohio.  In  all  states  of 
the  Union  we  see  men,  but  yesterday  burst  from  the  shackles  of 
slavery,  who,  by  a  self-educating  force,  which  cannot  be  too 
much  admired,  have  risen  to  highly  respectable  stations  in  soci 
ety.  Pennington,  among  clergymen,  Douglas  and  Ward,  among 
editors,  are  well-known  instances. 

If  this  persecuted  race,  with  every  discouragement  and  disad 
vantage,  have  done  thus  much,  how  much  more  they  might  do 
if  the  Christian  Church  would  act  towards  them  in  the  spirit  of 
her  Lord ! 

This  is  an  age  of  the  world  when  nations  are  trembling  and 
convulsed.  A  mighty  influence  is  abroad,  surging  and  heaving 
the  world,  as  with  an  earthquake.  And  is  America  safe  ?  Every 
nation  that  carries  in  its  bosom  great  and  unredressed  injustice 
has  in  it  the  elements  of  this  last  convulsion. 

For  what  is  this  mighty  influence  thus  rousing  in  all  nations 
and  languages  those  groanings  that  cannot  be  uttered,  for  man's 
freedom  and  equality  ? 

O  Church  of  Christ,  read  the  signs  of  the  times!  Is  not 
this  power  the  spirit  of  HIM  whose  kingdom  is  yet  to  come, 
and  whose  will  to  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven  ? 

But  who  may  abide  the  day  of  his  appearing  ?  u  For  that 
day  shall  burn  as  an  oven  :  and  he  shall  appear  as  a  swift  wit 
ness  against  those  that  oppress  the  hireling  in  his  wages,  the 
widow  and  the  fatherless,  and  that  turn  aside  the  stranger  in 
his  right :  and  he  shall  break  in  pieces  the  oppressor." 

Are  not  these  dread  words  for  a  nation  bearing  in  her  bosom 
so  mighty  an  injustice  ?  Christians  !  every  time  that  you  pray 
that  the  kingdom  of  Christ  may  come,  can  you  forget  that 
prophecy  associates  in  dread  fellowship,  the  day  of  vengeance 
with  the  year  of  his  redeemed  ? 

A  day  of  grace  is  yet  held  out  to  us.  Both  North  and  South 
have  been  guilty  before  God ;  and  the  Christian  Church  has 
a  heavy  account  to  answer.  Not  by  combining  together,  to 
protect  injustice  and  cruelty,  and  making  a  common  capital  of 


500  UNCLE    TOM'S   CABIN. 

sin,  is  this  Union  to  be  saved,  —  but  by  repentance,  justices 
and  mercy ;  for,  not  surer  is  the  eternal  law  by  which  the  mill 
stone  sinks  in  the  ocean,  than  that  stronger  law  by  which  in 
justice  and  cruelty  shall  bring  on  nations  the  wrath  of  Almighty 
God! 


THE  END. 


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Recollections  of  Auton  House.     Illustrated.     Small 

4to 1.25 

A  Fashionable  Sufferer.     Illustrated.     I2mo      .     .     .  1.50 

Two  Compton  Boys.     Illustrated.     Small  4to   .     .     .  1.50 

Blanche  Willis  Howard. 

One  Summer.     A  Novel.     New  Popular  Edition.    Il 
lustrated  by  Hoppin.    I2mo 1.25 

William  Dean  Howells. 

Their  Wedding  Journey.     Illustrated.     I2mo    .     .     .  1.50 

The  Same.     "  Little  Classic "  style.     i8mo    ....  i.oo 

A  Chance  Acquaintance.     Illustrated.     I2mo    ...  1.50 

The  Same.     "Little  Classic'' style.     i8mo  ....  i.oo 

A  Foregone  Conclusion.     I2mo 1.50 

The  Lady  of  the  Aroostook.     I2mo 1.50 

The  Undiscovered  Country.     I2mo 1.50 

Suburban  Sketches.     I2mo 1.50 

A  Day's  Pleasure,  etc.     32010 75 

Thomas  Hughes. 

Tom   Brown's   School-Days    at   Rugby.     Illustrated,     i.oo 
Tom  Brown  at  Oxford,     i&mo 1.25 


8  Works  of  Fiction  Published  by 

Henry  James,  Jr. 

A  Passionate  Pilgrim,  and  Other  Tales.     I2mo       .     .  $2.00 

Roderick  Hudson.     I2mo 2.00 

The  American.     I2mo 2-°° 

Watch  and  Ward.     "  Little  Classic  "  style.     i8mo     .  1.25 

The  Europeans.     I2mo l-5P 

Confidence.     I2mo l-S° 

The  Portrait  of  a  Lady.     I2mo 2.00 

Anna  Jameson. 

Studies  and  Stories.     New  Edition.     i6mo,  gilt  top  .      1.25 
Diary  of  an  Ennuyee.    New  Edition.    i6mo,  gilt  top  .      1.25 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures.    Illustrated.     i6mo    .     i.oo 

Sarah  Orne  Jewett. 

Deephaven.     i8mo     .     .     -     •> I>25 

Old  Friends  and  New.    i8mo i-25 

Country  By-Ways.     i8mo l-23 

The  Mate  of  the  Daylight.     i8mo i-25 

A  Country  Doctor.     i6mo l-25 

A  Marsh  Island.     i6mo l-25 

A  White  Heron,  and  Other  Stories.     i8mo  ....  1.25 

The  King  of  Folly  Island,  and  Other  People.     i6mo  :.2$ 

Rossiter  Johnson. 

"  Little  Classics."  Each  in  one  volume.     i8mo. 
L  Exiie.  X.  Childhood. 

II.  Intellect.  XI.  Heroism. 

III  Tragedy.  XII.  Fortune. 

IV  Life  XIII.  Narrative  Poems, 
V*  Laughter.  XIV.  Lyrical  Poems. 

VI    Love.  XV.  Minor  Poems. 

VIL  Romance.  XVI.  Nature. 

VIII.  Mvstery.  XVII.  Humanity. 

IX.  Comedy.  XVIII.  Authors. 

Each  volume *-°° 

The  set l8-°° 

Joseph  Kirkland. 

Zury  :  the  Meanest  Man  in  Spring  County.     I2mo      .     1.50 
The  McVeys.     i6mo 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 

Tales  from  Shakespeare.     i8mo 

The  Same.     Illustrated.     i6mo M» 


Houghfon,  Mifflin  and  Company.  g 

Harriet  and  Sophia  Lee. 

Canterbury  Tales.     In  three  volumes.     The  set,  i6mo  $3.75 

Mary  Catherine  Lee. 

A  Quaker  Girl  of  Nantucket.     i6mo 1.25 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

Hyperion.     A  Romance.     i6mo   .  ^ 1.50 

Popular  Edition.     i6mo .     •       -40 

Popular  Edition.     Paper  covers,  i6mo 15 

Outre-Mer.     i6mo 1.50 

Popular  Edition.     i6mo 40 

Popular  Edition.     Paper  covers,  i6mo 15 

Kavanagh.     i6mo I-S° 

Hyperion,  Outre-Mer  and  Kavanagh.  2  vols.  crown  8vo     3.00 

Flora  Haines  Longhead. 

The  Man  who  was  Guilty.     i6mo 1.25 

D.  R.  McAnally. 

Irish  Wonders.     Illustrated.     Small  4to 2.00 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 

In  War  Time.     i6mo 1.25 

Roland  Blake.     i6mo 1.25 

Lucy  Gibbons  Morse. 

The  Chezzles.     Illustrated 1.50 

The  Notable  Series. 

One  Summer.     By  Blanche  Willis  Howard. 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp.     By  Bret  Harte. 
Backlog  Studies.     By  C.  D.  Warner. 

The  set,  3  vols.  i6mo 3.75 

Mrs.  M.  O.  W.  Oliphant  and  T.  B.  Aldrich. 

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Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 

The  Gates  Ajar,     i6mo 1.50 

Beyond  the  Gates.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Gates  Between.     i6mo 1.25 

Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts.     i6mo 50 

Hedged  In.     i6mo 50 

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The  Story  of  Avis.     i6mo 50 

Sealed  Orders,  and  Other  Stories.     i6mo 50 

Friends  :  A  Duet.     i6mo 25 

Doctor  Zay.     i6mo 25 

An  Old  Maid's  Paradise,  and  Burglars  in  Paradise      .       .25 

Madonna  of  the  Tubs.     Illustrated.     I2mo 50 

Jack  the  Fisherman.     Illustrated.     Square  I2mo  .     .      .50 


io  Works  of  Fiction  Published  by 

Marian  C.  L.  Reeves  and  Emily  Read. 

Pilot  Fortune.     i6mo $1.25 

J.  P.  Quincy. 

The  Peckster  Professorship.     i6mo 1.25 

Josiah  Royce. 

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Joseph  Xavier  Boniface  Saintine. 

Picciola.     Illustrated.    i6mo i.oo 

Jacques  Henri  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre. 

Paul  and  Virginia.     Illustrated.     i6mo i.oo 

The  Same,  together  with  Undine,  and  Sintram.   321110      .75 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  Waverley  Novels.  Illustrated  Library  Edition. 
Illustrated  with  100  engravings  by  Darley,  Dielman, 
Fredericks,  Low,  Share,  Sheppard.  With  glossary 
and  a  full  index  of  characters.  In  25  volumes,  I2mo. 

Waverley.  The  Antiquary. 

Guy  Mannering.  Rob  Roy. 

Old  Mortality.  St.  Ronan's  Well. 

Black  Dwarf,  and  Legend      Redgauntlet. 
of  Montrose.  The  Betrothed,  and  The 

Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.  Highland  Widow. 

Bride  of  Lammermoor.  The  Talisman,  and  Other 

Ivanhoe.  Tales. 

The  Monastery.  Woodstock. 

The  Abbot.  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth. 

Kenilworth.  Anne  of  Geierstein. 

The  Pirate.  Count  Robert  of  Paris. 

The  Fortunes  of  Nigel.  The  Surgeon's  Daughter, 

Peveril  of  the  Peak.  and  Castle  Dangerous. 

Quentin  Durward. 

Each  volume i.oo 

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Tales  of  a  Grandfather.  Illustrated  Library  Edition. 
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Horace  E.  Scudder. 

The  Dwellers  in  Five-Sisters'  Court.     i6mo  ....  1.25 

Stories  and  Romances.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Children's  Book.    Edited  by  Mr.  Scudder.    Small 

4to 2.50 

Mark  Sibley  Severance. 

Hammersmith  :  His  Harvard  Days.     I2mo   ....     1.50 


Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company.  n 

J.  E.  Smith. 

Oakridge  :  An  Old-Time  Story  of  Maine,     I2mo    .     .  $2.00 
Mary  A.  Sprague. 

An  Earnest  Trifler.     lomo ,     ,     1.25 

William  W.  Story. 

Fiammetta.     i6mo 1,25 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 


Agnes  of  Sorrento.     i2mo   .     .     . 
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Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.     Illustrated  Edition.     I2mo  .     .     2.00 

The  Minister's  Wooing.     I2mo 

The  Mayflower,  and  Other  Sketches.     I2mo 
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Oldtown  Folks.     I2mo 

Sam  Lawson's  Fireside  Stories.     i2ino     .     . 
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We  and  Our  Neighbors.     Illustrated.     I2mo 
Poganuc  People.     Illustrated.     I2mo 


•50 

•50 


•50 
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The  above  eleven  volumes,  in  box 16.00 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.     Holiday  Edition.     With  Intro 
duction,  and  Bibliography  by  George  Bullen,  of  the 
British  Museum.     Over  100  Illustrations.     I2mo     .     3.00 
The  Same.    Popular  Edition.     I2mo i.OO 

Octave  Thanet. 

Knitters  in  the  Sun.     i6mo 1.25 

Gen.  Lew  Wallace. 

The  Fair  God ;  or,  The  Last  of  the  'Tzins.     I2mo  .     1.50 

Henry  Watterson. 

Oddities  in  Southern  Life.     Illustrated.     i6mo  .     .     .     1.50 

Richard  Grant  White. 

The  Fate  of  Mansfield  Humphreys,  with  the  Episode 

of  Mr.  Washington  Adams  in  England.     i6mo   .     .     1,25 

Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney. 

Faith  Gartney's  Girlhood.     Illustrated.     i2mo   .     . 
Hitherto :  A  Story  of  Yesterdays.     I2mo      .     .     . 


Patience  Strong's  Outings.     I2mo 

The  Gayworthys.     I2mo 

Leslie  Goldthwaite.  Illustrated.  I2mo  .  .  . 
We  Girls  :  A  Home  Story.  Illustrated.  I2mo 
Real  Folks.  Illustrated.  i2mo  ...... 


12  Works  of  Fiction. 

The  Other  Girls.     Illustrated.     i2mo $i-5° 

Sights  and  Insights.     2  vols.  I2mo ; 

Odd,  or  Even  ?     I2mo 

Boys  at  Chequasset.     Illustrated.     I2mo 1.50 

Bonnyborough.     I2mo I-5° 

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Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 

The  Birds'  Christmas  Carol.     Square  I2mo      ...       .50 

Justin  Winsor. 

Was  Shakespeare  Shapleigh  ?  A  Correspondence  in 
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Lillie  Chace  Wyman. 

Poverty  Grass.     i6mo I<25 


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